


The Surprising Merits of Prep School

by jcatvbismarck2012



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mildly Graphic Violence, Modern Royalty, My First Fanfic, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-07-11 16:00:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 32,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7059517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jcatvbismarck2012/pseuds/jcatvbismarck2012
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>César Azpilicueta has just joined a boarding school in Connecticut. He's there for the education, the college prep, the prestige.<br/>He's not there for romance. Screw romance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which César Gets a New Name

César Azpilicueta pushed open the door to room 214 and almost ran directly into someone. Well, more accurately, he almost ran into someone’s chest. César wasn’t short, but this guy was at least six inches taller.

“Sorry,” the other said.

“Oh,” said César. “No problem.”

“Are you César?”

“Um. Yeah.”

“You’re my roommate, then. I’m Nemanja Matic. Just call me Matic. Everyone does.”

“You can call me Azpi,” César said. 

“Nice to meet you, Azpi. Welcome to Barclays Academy.” Matic smiled and then checked his phone. “I was just going to see my friend Gary and meet his new roommate. Wanna come?”

“No, thanks,” César said. “I’m going to put my stuff away.”

“Okay. I’m sure you know already, but dinner’s at five thirty. I’ll see you then.”

“Yeah, okay,” said César, stepping aside to let Matic leave.

He put his suitcase down on his bed and started transferring his clothes into the dresser. César definitely liked to keep things neat, and he was pleased to see that Matic seemed to be cut from the same cloth—his side of the room was spotless, his bags out of sight, his bed neatly made. Once he was through with that, he made his bed and set up his desk. By then it was a little after five and César decided to explore.

On his hall, there were several doors propped open with chairs and César saw boys in them, laughing and chatting. He wished he knew someone well enough to stroll into their room and say hello. He wasn’t brave enough to do it otherwise.

He jogged down the stairs at the end of the hall and found himself on the younger boys’ corridor. He paused to look out the window in the stairwell at the pristine plaza outside. Suddenly, he was almost knocked down by a boy running down the stairs. Almost because César jumped out of the way just in time, and a good thing too, as this one was even taller than Matic.

He looked down—way down—at César. “Sorry,” he said, and then barged into the nearest door on the left without so much as a knock, saying “Will’s new roommate is a little bitch, just like Cesc said.”

César laughed to himself and continued down the hall and outside to the plaza, where he lingered until five thirty, when he made his way to the dining hall.

***

César loaded a dinner onto his plate—it actually looked quite good, unlike your typical high school fare—and walked towards a table at which he recognized the tall, black-haired boy. As he neared it, he heard their conversation and stopped to listen.

“I thought he seemed nice,” said the tall boy.

“You would, Thi, you think everyone’s nice,” said a smaller boy. “What’s his name again?”

“César Azpilicueta,” supplied another.

“César Az-whatta?”

“Az. Pi. Li. Cueta,” said a black boy with an afro. “Manage that, Ed?”

“Nope. Let’s just call him Steve. That’s easier,” said Ed.

“Steve makes me think of Steve Gerrard,” said the third boy.

“You’re right, Scar, although mostly it makes me think of his hot boyfriend. Let’s call him Dave.”

César walked over to them. “Is this seat taken?” he inquired.

“No,” said Ed. “But don’t sit all the way across from us, sit next to Thibaut. He’s actually quite nice.”

Smiling, César moved down to the seat next to the big boy—Thibaut.

“So,” said Ed. “We were just discussing that since none of us can say your name, you are henceforth known as Dave. What is it, anyway? Spanish?”

“My name? Yeah, my parents are Spanish.”

“Hm,” said Ed. “I’m Eden, and these are Oscar and Willian.”

“Nice to meet you,” said César.

“Same,” said afroed Willian. This, César inferred, was the Will to whom Thibaut had early referred.

Oscar nodded and then said, “I can’t believe summer’s over.”

“I can,” said Eden darkly and dramatically.

“Care to elaborate?” Thibaut said mildly.

“No,” said Eden. “I’m just saying that my mind is not so weak as Scar’s, and is therefore prepared to return to the rigor of academics.”

“I was making conversation,” said Oscar.

“I was returning it. I don’t like small talk. So, Dave,” he said, changing the conversation, “are you here for the classes?”

“Yes? Why else would I be here?” César had a feeling that the answer would not be a pleasant one.

“Because you’re gay and need a shag.”

“Eden.” That was Thibaut, who seemed to act as a moderator.

“It’s true.”

“I’m both,” said Oscar. “Actually, two of three. Actually, here for one of the three, but two apply.”

“Scar,” said Eden very slowly. “Please take a minute to organize your thoughts, because what we’re hearing right now is a stream of consciousness.”

Oscar did that and then said, “I’m here for the classes, but I’m gay, too.”

“That’s what everyone says,” Eden said delightedly. “‘I’ve come to get a good education,’ but then they fuck everyone in the place and only pass any classes on pity. So what about you?” This last question was directed at César.

“Same as Os—Scar,” said César, feeling his face turn crimson. “I’m just going to school, but, yeah, I’m gay.” He had never talked about it so openly, in such a public space.

Eden laughed. “Don’t call him Scar. He hates it. But he’s my roommate, so I can call him what I want.”

“I hate it,” Oscar said glumly.

“You’re cute when you’re embarrassed,” Willian said. 

“He is, isn’t he,” said Eden, squinting at César as if that made him cuter. César, who had assumed that Willain was referring to Oscar, tried to make himself redder. “Shame, because I like men who are cute and who are self-confident. It’s the tomato coloring that makes him cute, I think. Perhaps we could dye you.”

“Perhaps not,” said Thibaut.

“You always ruin my fun. Very well, Scar can have him.”

“I don’t want him,” squeaked Oscar.

Eden hooked a finger at Oscar. “He’s so rude. Ignore him, Dave-o.”

“Ed, Oscar, Willi, Thibaut. How’s it going?”

Two older boys sat down in the chairs next to Willian. The speaker was tall, well-built, and somehow leaderly, although César couldn’t quite put his finger on what quality it was that made him so. Maybe it was the way he looked you in the eye when he said your name, smiled, and was clearly asking out of genuine interest, not just as a nicety. The other was tall but stocky and serious-looking, perhaps eastern European.

The four other boys mumbled hellos, calling him John.

Now John turned his attention to César. “Hi, I’m John. What’s your name?”

“César. I’m a junior.”

“Just call him Dave,” Eden said. “Unless you speak Spanish, in which case, by all means, call him by whatever atrocity of the alphabet his last name is.”

“Do you want to be called Dave?” John said, looking César directly in the eye.

“Sure. I don’t care.”

“Okay, Dave,” said John. “And where are you from?”

“Pennsylvania. Spain originally, though.”

“Oh, nice. How old were you when you moved?”

“Just two.”

“Not old enough to have an accent, then. I was wondering,” said John.

“So you’ve grown up American?” said the other boy. “Hotdogs and baseball?”

“Yes,” said César. “Except I’m vegetarian, and I struck out in T-ball.”

“Nice,” said the boy. “I’m Branislav Ivanovic, by the way, and you can call me pretty much anything you damn please. Bran, Brani, Brano, Iva, Ivan, hell, I’ve even gotten Slavi a few times.”

“Zoumi called you Vichy last year, remember?” Thibaut said.

“Zoumi,” Ivanovic laughed. “I don’t give a damn what Zoumi calls me, so long as he never changes a little bit.”

“How’s Frank?” Willian asked John.

John’s face fell a little bit.

“He’s fine,” he said in a small voice. “I saw him a few days ago, before he left.” He turned to César. “Frank is my boyfriend. He used to go here, but his parents couldn’t pay the tuition. He got into a really good school in California almost for free, so he had to transfer.”

“I’m sorry,” said César.

“Thank you.”

“Well, on that sad note, which Willian was an absolute idiot for bringing up,” Eden announced, “I shall retire to my room. Scar, Willian, Dave, coming? Not you, ‘Baut!” he shouted as Thibaut stood up, unfolding to his full (terrifying) height. “Who invited you?”

“I’ll invite Thibaut if it means we can avoid a scene,” said Willian. “Let’s go.”

Eden led the group into a room on the second floor, which made César start. He hadn’t expected Eden to be a sophomore.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” Eden said. “And Scar’s. Make yourselves comfortable.”

“Can’t,” said Willian regretfully. “I have physics homework.”

“Homework? Over the summer?” Eden said, disgusted. “Oh, right, you’re in AP classes and such. Have fun with your lovely roommate.

“Oh, I will,” said Willian, making a face as he left.

“Who’s his roommate?” César asked.

“Roommates,” Eden said. “He was with Cesc last year, and a more perfect pair of roommates I have ever seen. But they signed up for a triple this year, and got the most pretentious, annoying bastard in the world.”

“Why? No one else would take him?”

“No, a new boy.”

“Well, how do you know he’s pretentious and annoying?” César said bravely.

“That’s what I said,” Oscar said.

Eden sighed. “Dave,” he said. “When I met you, I knew immediately that you were a decent type. I’m sure you thought the same when you met me.”

“I’m sure he’s still not sure what he’s doing, hanging around you,” Thibaut said.

“Screw you, Cortois,” said Eden amicably. “Well, this fellow is precisely the opposite. Greasy hair. Few brains. Not even very attractive.”

“Greasy hair isn’t always bad,” said Oscar.

“Scar, what you mean is that people with greasy hair aren’t always bad. Greasy hair itself is awful regardless of the person. But it is a warning sign.”

“He doesn’t seem much like the type to go here,” said Thibaut.

“No,” Oscar agreed. “Maybe he’ll leave.”

“I think Diego will murder him,” Eden said. “Ten dollars it happens within the month.”

“Even Diego’s not that stupid,” Thibaut argued.

“Have you met him?”

“Diego’s not stupid, he just does a good impression of it,” said Oscar.

“Then Diego should do drama, if that’s all an act,” said Eden. “But here we are, talking about someone and Dave’s never even heard of him. How rude we are.”

“We could introduce him,” said Oscar.

“That’s precisely what I was hinting at,” said Eden, standing up. “Come on. Time to take Dave on a tour.”

***

Within the next hour, César had been bear-hugged to death by a boy twice his size (“He’s a linebacker,” Eden said helpfully), held a punching bag for a kid who was supposedly only sixteen but would make boxers run the other way if they saw him in a dark alley (“A face only a mother could love,” Eden commented, shaking his head ruefully), had a long conversation about the merits of various regions of Spain (“It’s rude to speak a language no one else understands right in front of them, you know,” said Eden in French, not realizing that César understood a good deal of that language as well), and unwillingly participated in convincing a trio of freshmen that they should stay away from John Terry at all costs (“He acts all nice and welcoming, but then he laughs at you to everyone else,” Eden told them knowingly).

“Okay, one more room,” said Eden. “Willi, Cescky, and Bitch Roommate.”

“Don’t be too mean to him,” said Thibaut.

Eden made a face. “I make no promises.”

If there was one thing César had learned about Eden, it was that he never made promises to be nice.

Eden opened the door. “Ey, Cescky!”

“Hi, Ed,” said a dark-haired boy in a distinct Spanish accent.

“How was…”

“Arenys de Mar,” supplied Cesc. “It was brilliant. I saw all my family and everyone.”

“Eres de españa?” said César.

Cesc looked at him and grinned. “Sí, y tú?”

“Sí. Pamplona, pero me mudé a Pennsylvania cuando tenía dos años. Mi acento es terrible, sí?”

“No, es perfecto,” said Cesc, grinning. “Muchos hablan español aquí.”

“Well, yo no hablo Spanish,” said Eden, rolling his eyes. “What did I tell you earlier, Dave?”

“He always has to be a part of everything,” said Willian from a desk. “Ed, can you not let people have their own conversation for two seconds?”

Eden winked. “I’m a social butterfly. What can I say?” He sat on the edge of Willian’s desk. “How’s AP Physics?”

“Hard to do with your fat ass on the book,” said Willian, shoving Eden off.

Eden hopped onto the floor good-naturedly and turned to César and Cesc. “Where are my manners?” he said.

“They got lost long ago,” Thibaut said. “Why do you sit on other people’s stuff?”

“I wasn’t talking about that,” said Eden. “Also, it was a rhetorical question anyway. I realized that Dave and Cesc are not actually acquainted. Dave, this is Cesc Fabregas. Cesc, this is Dave.”

“Mucho gusto, David,” said Cesc, extending his hand.

César took it and shook. “My name’s actually César.”

“César?” said Cesc. “How do you get Dave from César?”

César shrugged. “Ask him,” he said, jerking a finger at Eden, who grinned and shrugged.

“And now to business,” said Eden. “Where’s Bitch Roommate?”

“Don’t call him that,” said Cesc. “He’s quite decent, actually. Just a little…” He searched for the word.

“Stuck up,” said Willian.

“Yes,” said Cesc. “But nice, once you talk to him.”

“But where is he?” said Eden. “I’m reserving judgement until I meet him.”

“You judged him the moment you heard about him,” said Thibaut.

Eden ignored him. “Tell me when he comes?”

“You’ll meet him soon,” said Cesc. “Don’t we have house meeting tonight anyway?”

“House meeting!” said Eden, eyes lighting up. “I forgot!”

Cesc turned to César. “House meeting, since these guys probably won’t tell you, is when the entire Chelsea House meets in our advisor’s apartment. We have it, what, twice a month?”

“And on people’s birthdays,” said Thibaut. 

“Oh, he gets to meet Jose,” said Oscar, smiling knowingly.

“Jose?” said César, pronouncing it the Spanish way.

“Joe-say,” said Willian. “The Spanish kids always pronounce it wrong. He’s from Portugal. The calculus teacher. I have him this year.”

“Oh, good luck,” said Eden in a horrified tone. “I get Martinez.”

“He’s good,” Thibaut said. “I had him last year.”

“Jose’s brilliant,” said Cesc, “but he’s really tough, except on his favorites, and he’ll work your ass off. If you survive, you’ll be all set for anything college can throw at you, but more likely—“

“They find your body hunched over your calculus book,” said Eden bleakly. “Well, on that pleasant note, see you tonight?”

He left, taking Thibaut and Oscar with him.

Cesc turned to César. “So, Eden’s got you.”

“Got me?” said César.

Cesc shrugged. “He likes you.”

César’s heart involuntarily skipped a beat. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, not romantically or anything,” said Cesc. “But he’s got his group, you know? Oscar, Thibaut, Willian. He likes me, hell, he likes most people, even though he pretends not to. But… well, it’s hard to explain. He doesn’t want…” Cesc stopped. “You know, I don’t actually know, so I’m not going to say things I can’t back up.”

“I’ll make my own conclusions,” said César. “Nice to meet you.”


	2. In Which César Goes To Class

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chelsea House is a lot nicer than real prep school. César doesn't know anyone. Everyone hates Louis van Gaal.

Barclays Academy was an all-boys school of about five hundred students. It had been started in 1888 and changed hands once or twice throughout its history, but the old traditions remained the same. The most important of these traditions was the House Competition.

Upon arriving at the school, boys were placed into one of twenty houses. This was the dormitory in which you lived, but it also usually determined your social circles and reputation. Every month, competitions were held and houses won points. At the end of the year, the team with the most points won a trophy, but more importantly, they won pride.

César had been placed in Chelsea House, one of the more prestigious houses. Chelsea held the House Trophy as well as, he soon found out, the Most Hated House award (an unofficial award, of course). There were twenty-five Chelsea students, and they were, César found, closer than brothers. They all lived in a two-story house that looked no different on the outside than any other New England house, but was a madhouse on the inside. There were four dorm rooms downstairs, plus Jose’s apartment, and eight upstairs. The attic had been transformed into a gigantic den. There was a huge flatscreen TV with an Xbox, a pool table that could be used for ping pong, a foosball table, air hockey, and lots of comfortable chairs scattered around the room. This room was called the Bridge, for reasons no one could remember (except probably John, who had grown up next to the school and been an unofficial member of Chelsea House since his was about four.) All the grades had different Bridge curfews that coincided with lights-out.

César met his housemates that night. There weren’t too many; it wasn’t hard to remember them all. This was in Jose’s apartment. César liked the house advisor immediately. He gave off an air of intelligence and self-confidence, possibly to the point of egotism, but he laughed with the boys and had a good sense of humor.

“Bed or Bridge?” said Eden as they left Jose’s apartment around seven-thirty.

César hesitated.

“Rhetorical,” Eden said. “You’re coming upstairs.”

Most of the other boys were already in the Bridge. Asmir Begovic, easily recognizable by his height, and Thibaut were playing air hockey while Gary Cahill and John Obi Mikel watched and cheered them on. Ola Aina, Jamal Blackman, Bertrand Traore, and Baba Rahman were sitting on a couch, talking. Two of the freshmen, Ruben and Kenedy were playing FIFA while the older boys watched.

Nemanja, one of the boys watching the FIFA match, turned around and saw Eden and César. “Hey, roommate, c’mere!”

César walked over and Nemanja put his arm around the smaller boy. “You play FIFA?”

“A bit,” César said.

“You’re on my team. We’re playing Pedro and Diego.”

Diego growled a little bit. César gave him an awkward smile.

By the time César went to his room at nine forty-five, he had won just one game. He was, however, unharmed. The same could not be said for John Obi and Asmir, who beat Pedro and Diego in a penalty shootout and thus incurred Diego’s wrath.

“I never thought of a Xbox controller as a potential weapon,” Eden noted.

“Ouch,” said Asmir.

***

César slept surprisingly well for his first night in a new bed. Nemanja had brought a fan that was practically nuclear-powered (August in Connecticut was surprisingly hot) and its whirring provided the white noise necessary for César to sleep.

César’s alarm went off at seven the next morning. He sat up slowly to turn it off and groaned. He could have slept for another five hours. Still, he got out of bed and dressed. Nemanja was already gone—he’d said last night that he was an early riser—so César had the room to himself. The school uniform was khaki pants, a black blazer, and a collared shirt in one of your house’s colors. César opted for the royal blue one (Chelsea blue, they called it here). Then he went to breakfast.

He spent the day following people. In a school of five hundred boys, the twenty-four you know disappear awfully quickly, César found out. He had English with John Obi, and history with Asmir, but the rest of the time he felt so, so lost. Everyone else knew one another, and there was lots of good-natured teasing of other house members that César couldn’t join in on because he didn’t know what to say.

Lunch came, and César was left to sit with a group of boys who shrugged noncommittally when he asked to join them and talked about what someone had done over the summer (sailing around the Caribbean), whether or not someone was actually dating that hot girl from another school (probably not) and if they had a chance at winning the league they were in for soccer (not unless the two stars from a school they referred to as Liga both broke their legs). César ate as quickly as he could, laughed when everyone else laughed, and tried his best to seem to understand what was going on.

His class after lunch was Honors Pre-Calc, which César was sure would be hard. He had always been in honors classes but usually got low B’s, so he was surprised that Barclays had placed him in honors. He’d find out soon enough if he’d be able to handle it.

The room was arranged with one row of tables in the front and another in the back. César sat in the back, not wanting to call attention to himself. The teacher was a youngish man who looked distinctly Spanish who was sitting at his computer. There were already four boys who had taken seats in the front and were arguing about something in what César assumed was Barclays jargon. It had to do with “City” and “United.”

“You’re just a bunch of rich…” said a boy in a red shirt, trailing off when he noticed the teacher’s presence.

“At least we’ve done something recently. All United does is hold this school back.”

More students filed in. A dark-haired boy with a lot of hair gel sat to César’s right and acknowledged him with a nod; the rest ignored him. As the class bell rang, the door opened and Eden Hazard slid into the room. His face visibly lit up when he noticed César and the empty seat next to him, and he walked to the seat.

“Way to show up, Hazard,” said someone.

Eden, with the dignity of a king, gave the boy who had spoken a condescending smile and sat down.

“Hey, Dave. I didn’t know you were in this class.”

“I didn’t know you were in it, either,” said César. “You’ve gotta tell me these things.”

Eden grinned. “You like math?”

“Not particularly,” César admitted. “You?”

“No,” said Eden as if that was obvious. “I most certainly do not. But I don’t really like school in general.”

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

“A soccer player. A movie star. A singer. A writer. Everything. I don’t know. I’m fifteen.”

And then class started and César had to pay attention, which was hard when he was sitting next to the single most interesting person he had ever met.

***

In a moment of stupidity, César had signed up to do tech for the play.

He had never done it in his life, but when he had looked at the alternatives, it had seemed his best bet. He loved soccer but was awful at it. He wasn’t big enough for football or fast enough for cross country. And there was no way he was going to actually act in the play.

But ten minutes into the tech director’s explanations of what they were going to build, César’s head was spinning. He had built a model airplane that came in a box with instructions once. It had fallen apart. How was he supposed to use actual power tools?

“And we also need people to run lights and sound in the show. You’ll still have to help with construction, but that part will be less of a commitment. Any volunteers?”

César felt his hand rise.

His partner in running the lights was named Shinji Okazaki, and he was a Japanese student who had been in charge of doing the lights in every play since he was a freshman. Shinji rolled his eyes when he found out that César was a complete rookie and quickly lost patience when César accidentally hit the blackout button and sent the theatre into a panic.

“Look,” he said. “Do you know how to video?”

César, who considered himself excellent at smartphone use, said yes.

“Do you want to film games live?”

“Huh?” said César weakly.

Speaking very slowly, as if César were an idiot, Shinji said, “Some students film sports games and they are played live online so parents can watch.”

“Oh!” said César. “That would be cool.”

“You can talk to Eddie about it,” said Shinji.

***

“How was your first day?” said Thibaut.

“Horrible,” Eden replied, sitting down. “Let me tell you, I was not in the mood to run full-field suicides.” He was wearing shorts and a gray T-shirt that was drenched in sweat and his soccer socks were rolled down around his ankles.

“You smell,” said Kurt Zouma.

Eden looked at him in mock offense. “Excuse me? That is terribly ungentlemanly, Mister Zouma!”

“You are terribly ungentlemanly,” Thibaut said. “I was asking César.”

“Fine,” César said through a mouthful of lettuce.

Eden rolled his eyes. “We’re a polite bunch, aren’t we? Talking with our mouths full, insulting one another, et cetera.”

“Hashtag Most Hated,” said Willian.

César had been informed by Nemanja that students ate with their grade at lunch, their house at dinner, and wherever they wanted at breakfast. About half of Chelsea House was seated around the circular table now.

“Hey,” said one of the freshmen (Kenedy, César thought his name was). “Does anyone know if it’s possible to drop English?”

“Who do you have?” said Eden, instantly ready to share his input on how best to do as little as possible at school.

“Van Gaal.”

Eden, Willian, Thibaut, and Kurt groaned in unison.

“Sorry, sorry,” said Kurt. “Wow, sorry.”

“Okay,” said Eden. “It is not possible to drop English. However—are there any other freshman English teachers?”

“Howe,” said Ruben Loftus-Cheek, a freshman who looked sixteen.

“The new guy?” said Willian. “Haven’t heard anything about him.”

“Ola has him, and he says he’s pretty good.”

“All right,” said Eden. “You know where my room is?”

Ruben and Kenedy nodded in unison.

“Stop by tonight and bring Ola. I’ll try to set you up.”

“Thanks,” said Ruben as he and Kenedy picked up their plates and left the table. As soon as they were gone, Willian turned to Eden, shaking his head.

“If you put half as much work into school as you do into figuring out how to buck the system, you’d be top of your class.”

“I am top of my class,” said Eden. “Or close enough, anyway. Besides, the entire point of the real world is to figure out how to do things better than everyone else, and in order to do that, you need to cut corners.”

“That’s so unethical,” Thibaut said.

“Hey, Baut, I never claimed to be a nice guy.”

Maybe not, thought César. But even though he was a corner-cutting, system-bucking rebel, he still managed to be a nice guy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning: I'm a Chelsea supporter (if you didn't guess). Other teams will be made fun of. Nothing personal.  
> Also, besides Chelsea players, significant time will be given to Leicester players, because that team is so damn cute. Like I said: staunch Chelsea supporter. But I have a soft spot for Leicester (who doesn't).


	3. In Which César Plays A Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cuts for the soccer team come out. The houses play capture-the-flag.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was about halfway done with another chapter when I realized that I had mentioned last chapter that there were monthly competitions to get points for your house and that I had no idea what those competitions were (oops). Thus this chapter was born.

“Hey,” said Cesc. “Teams were posted today for soccer.”

Cesar looked up from where he was sitting on the floor. “Did you get Prep?” Barclays had five levels of soccer teams, all the way down to fourths, and the top level was called Prep. Prep players regularly went on to play in Division 1 schools and the team played against smaller colleges.

“That’s awesome!” said Willian.

“Yeah,” said Cesc. “I mean, I figured I’d get it.” He scrolled down the page. “ _Mierda_. Eden made Prep.”

“He did?” said Cesar. “He is good, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, but…” Cesc looked impressed. “It’s not often sophomores make Prep. He’s good enough, it’s just surprising.”

The door banged open.

“Hi,” said Eden.

“Hi,” said Cesc calmly.

Eden’s entire body seemed to be quivering. “What’s going on?”

“Not much,” said Cesc. “We’re just doing homework.”

“Oh,” said Eden. “Anything else?”

“Nope. Pretty boring day, really,” said Willian.

“Nice weather, though,” said Cesc.

Eden had visibly deflated. “Yeah,” he said, turning around. “See you guys later.”

As he was walking out the door, Willian shouted, “Oh, come back, you little dipshit, congrats on making Prep!”

Eden practically flew into the room and leapt into Cesc’s arms.

“I figured I was good enough, but I just didn’t know! I mean, you never know, do you? I figured I’d make varsity again, and I was hoping and hoping for Prep, and I got it! I fucking made Prep!”

“Yeah, it’s awesome. Get off, you’re bigger than you think you are.”

Just then, Radamel Falcao walked into the room. He stopped when he saw the four of them celebrating.

“Oh,” he said awkwardly. “Hi.”

“Hi, Falcao,” said Cesc easily. “How’s it going?”

“Okay,” he said shortly, picking up his phone and walking out of the room.

Eden looked around gleefully. “Bitch Roommate made JV.”

“Don’t be mean, Eden,” said Cesc.

“I’m not being mean, I’m just saying.”

“Well, don’t say,” Cesc said shortly. “We have to get ready for tonight, anyway.”

“Oh, right,” said Cesar. “It’s the game thing, right?”

“The game thing?” said Eden. “It’s an extraordinarily violent version of twenty-way capture the flag played in the dark by five hundred teenage boys that the teachers call “initiation.” There will likely be blood. Get psyched.”

* * *

 

At eight o’clock, the entirety of Chelsea House was gathered in Jose’s apartment. Everyone was dressed all in black except for blue wristbands with the Chelsea crest emblazoned on them. Eden had also painted his own and Oscar’s faces black.

“All right,” said John. “You’ve all probably heard a lot about this. I’m here to dispel any rumors. No one has ever died.”

“That we know of,” muttered Eden.

“How would someone die and no one know about it?” said Thibaut.

“The rules are simple,” John continued. “Each house has hidden its scarf within five feet of the door. You may not touch your own scarf within that area. If you capture another team’s scarf and bring it back to your house, you put it with your own. If you remove another person’s wristband, you take him back to your own house as a prisoner. Prisoners escape by getting their wristbands back, but they can’t leave jail. Most importantly: once a captain is captured, his house is out of the game. The game ends when there’s one house left or the remaining houses’ heads decide stalemate and then points are awarded based on how many scarves you have. Questions?”

“Yeah,” said Ruben. “How’re you supposed to get someone’s wristband off if it’s on their wrist?”

“Well, that’s why there are rumors of death, isn’t it,” said Gary.

“Knock ‘em down,” said Branislav. “You’re a big lad, you can take them.”

“Or ask nice,” Oscar said.

“Yeah, how’d that work out for you last year?” said Eden.

“I was _joking_!”

“Don’t.”

“All right,” said Jose, and the roommates stopped bickering immediately. “The house advisors are supposed to tell you all to play nice and be careful and not hurt anyone. But I’m not going to do that.”

One of the freshmen laughed nervously.

“Do whatever you need to do. And protect our scarf and John at all costs.”

“Yeah!” shouted Diego.

“All right. Asmir, Jamal, and Thibaut: guard the prisoners. Cesar, Gary, Papy, Branislav, Ola, Baba, Kurt, and John: guard the scarf. Nemanja, John Obi, Ramires, and Ruben: scout around the area. Don’t go for any scarves, but try to stop anyone coming for us before they get too close. Willian, Diego, Oscar, Cesc, Radamel, Eden, Loic, Pedro, Bertrand, Kenedy: go get everyone else’s scarves. Clear?”

Everyone nodded.

“Shame you’re not with us,” Eden whispered to Cesar. Cesar nodded, privately thinking that he wouldn’t particularly like to have to go attack other houses.

“Song,” said John, and they all huddled together, arms around each other and suddenly, without warning, started singing.

“ _Blue is the color, football is the game. We’re all together, and winning is our aim._ ”

Cesar looked around helplessly and noticed the other new boys doing the same. John’s eyes were closed as the group swayed side to side to the beat. Eden turned to him and grinned at his ineptitude. 

“ _Blue is the color_ ,” the group sang, reaching the chorus again, and Cesar added his voice. “ _We’re all together, and winning is our aim. So_ something something _sun and rain_ … _Chelsea is our name_.”

Another verse that Cesar knew nothing of. Its end was heralded by John shouting, “ _Sing Chelsea everyone!_ ”

They all roared the chorus at the top of their lungs, getting louder and louder until the final “ _Cause Chelsea, Chelsea is our name!_ ” was shouted rather than sung.

“I GO INTO BATTLE!” yelled Diego.

“YOU COME WITH ME!” everyone else responded.

“Let’s go, boys!” yelled John.

They piled out of the door. All around the square (there were five houses positioned around what was known as London Quad) Cesar saw other boys emerging from their houses. Directly across the way, a boy from West Ham met his eye. Cesar held his gaze, unwilling to show any sign of fear.

“All right,” said John. “My group, c’mere.”

He held a blue scarf wrapped tightly around his hand. “Cesar, I’m giving this to you.”

“Me?” said Cesar.

“Yes, you. Hide it somewhere outside the house. When we get out of this huddle, though, I want all of you to go pretend to be hiding something. I’ve got these as dummies.” He handed out a bunch of bandannas. “Then, we’ll partner up. Everyone take a side of the house. Gary, you’re with Ola. Brani with Papy, Cesar with Baba. I’ve got Zoumi. Everyone understand?”

“I’ve got you covered, captain,” said Kurt.

“You better, or else we’re not going to last long,” said John with a smile. “All right. No mercy. Let’s go.”

Cesar made a circuit around the house and finally decided on a bush as the best hiding place. He put the scarf deep into the center of it and saw Baba waiting for him when he stood.

“Let’s go over here,” said Cesar. “You ever done this before?”

“I’m just as new as you,” Baba responded.

A shrill whistle blew. A roar went up around the houses. The game had begun.

* * *

 

A shout came from the other side of the house. Cesar heard the sound of a scuffle, and then someone shouting, “Let’s get out of here!” He and Baba exchanged a look.

“D’you think we chased someone off?” said Baba.

“I guess,” said Cesar. He was itching to go around the side and check, but he didn’t want to leave Baba alone.

Twenty minutes and then thirty minutes passed. Cesar could hear people moving, yelling, fighting all around him, and yet no one attacked them. He wished he were with Eden and Cesc, attacking other houses and stealing their scarves.

“HEY!” Kurt shouted. “HELP, CHELSEA!”

Baba’s eyes were wide with fright. Cesar made an executive decision.

“I’ll go help, you stay here.”

Baba nodded and Cesar ran around the side of the house. Kurt was gone, but Gary stood there.

“What’s wrong?” said Cesar. A realization dawned. “Oh, shit, where’s John?”

“Went after a couple of guys who were chasing Willian and Oscar,” said Gary. “Then a whole group of them jumped him. West Brom, I think. Zoumi’s gone after them, but…”

Their captain had been captured.

“So now we’re not allowed to take scarves?”

“No. Only defend. So let’s do it.”

Two black-clad figures streaked towards Chelsea House.

“Let’s get ‘em,” Cesar said. He was nervous, sure, but also filled with adrenaline. Whoever they were, he could take them, he would take them down…

And then there were three, four, five more. One of them hit Baba in the face and he went down. They were heading towards the side of the house with the flag. Without glancing back at his teammate, Cesar ran and tackled one of them. They rolled together on the ground, the other boy scratching at Cesar’s face. Woozily, Cesar noticed that his wristband carried the Crystal Palace crest… his wristband! Cesar grabbed his arm, trying to hold it still, but he wrenched it away from Cesar’s grasp.

Feet thudded the ground around Cesar’s head and suddenly Kurt was there, pulling Cesar’s attacker off. Cesar sat up, head spinning, and got a look at his opponent for the first time. He was bigger than Cesar, with long hair mussed by the fight and a rat-like face.

“Get off him,” Kurt said, voice low and dangerous. Cesar was glad they were in the same house. “You got your damn flag. Don’t hurt anyone.”

The other boy spat on the ground and ran off. Kurt bent down and grabbed Cesar’s shoulders. “You okay?”

“Fine.” Cesar could feel a bruise on the back of his head forming from where he had first landed on the ground and his cheek hurt, but he was pretty sure there had been no major damage done.

“You’re bleeding.” Kurt touched Cesar’s cheek gently. “Oh my God, Cesar, he scratched you!”

“I’m okay.”

A horn blew. “It’s over,” said Kurt. “It’s over, dammit. I don’t believe it. We _lost_.”

He helped Cesar to his feet. “Come on. We all meet in the dining hall so they can give the scores.”

* * *

 

The mood in the dining hall was strangely subdued. With the exception of five or six tables, which were celebrating loudly and waving scarves, most of the others were slumped around tables, defeated. Eden, John, and Diego were notably absent from the Chelsea table. Cesar didn’t want to ask what had happened to them.

Richard Scudamore, the headmaster, stood at the front of the dining room. Everyone became quiet as he raised a microphone and announced, “First, the prisoner release!”

About thirty-five boys scattered around the room stood up and, to jeers from the rest of the tables, rejoined their houses. Eden, John, Diego, and Falcao came to the Chelsea table. Someone across the room called “ _Ooh, Eden Hazard_ got _captured_!” Eden retaliated with a withering glare and sat down on the edge of Oscar’s seat.

“Ignore them,” whispered Thibaut.

“What do you think I’m doing?” Eden snapped.

“Very good!” said Scudamore, blissfully unaware of (or perhaps ignoring) the clear hostility between houses. “And now, time to reveal the standings! The bottom three!”

On the screen behind him, three house names appeared. _Stoke, Newcastle, Sunderland_. Someone at the Stoke table groaned loudly and a Newcastle boy muttered “Not again.”

“Mid-table!”

Above the bottom three, ten names appeared. _West Ham, Everton, Southampton, Bournemouth, Aston Villa, Chelsea…_

Chelsea?

Branislav’s mouth dropped open in a way that might have been comical if not for the reason. John looked shell-shocked. Ruben put his head on the table.

“We’ve _never_ been midtable,” Cesc whispered.

“Shit,” said Kurt, succinctly summarizing everyone’s feelings.

Someone laughed.

Diego growled, hands balling into fists. Gary grabbed one of his arms and Thibaut the other. “Chill, Diego, let them laugh, we’ll show them…”

“Fifth through seventh!” _Manchester United, Arsenal, Liverpool._

“And your top four!” _Manchester City, Crystal Palace, Leicester, Swansea_.

The City table erupted into cheers, as did the other three. Everyone else glared at them.

“Typical,” grumbled Nemanja. “If we’re top after August, they say it’s a fluke. If they’re top, they say they’re the greatest house the world has ever fucking known.”

“Well done, all!” said Scudamore happily. “And now, goodnight. Captains, please remain behind.”

Eden was the first one to leave the room, pushing through the crowd before Cesar could say anything to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said earlier, the next chapter is about halfway done so that should be out sooner rather than later!! Also, are there any ideas for other competitions between houses? I have a few, but nine more need to happen so...


	4. In Which César Finds A Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> César makes a list. Chelsea House is still sucking in the House Competition. Eden and César tell each another about themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was hard to write for whatever reason. Maybe because it's feelings instead of banter (damn you, feelings!)

A month had passed, and César still wasn’t sure how he felt about Eden.

Firstly: Eden was smart, but didn’t care about school. In the one class they had together, pre-calc, he sat at the back of the class, didn’t take notes, and knew the answer to every question Mr. Martinez asked.

(“I don’t need to take notes,” Eden said. “I remember everything, and besides, math is easy to work out even if you don’t know the formulas.”)

Secondly: People liked Eden. He always had a cloud of admirers around him. It wasn’t limited to people from Chelsea House, either. Despite the innate scorn everyone had for members of other houses, the fascination they had with Eden seemed to be stronger than the taboo. They liked him because he was the star of the soccer team, because he was smart and didn’t flaunt it, and mostly because he was just fun to be around. César was at the centre of that cloud, and had developed a bit of a reputation for being the judgmental one of Eden’s friends.

(“It’s because you’re so quiet,” Eden said. “Willi’s the friendly one, Scar’s the cute one, and Baut’s the cool one. That’s what everyone thinks, at least.”)

Thirdly: Eden was genuine, passionate, and a true friend to anyone lucky enough to call him one. He would go to war over the slightest insult directed at a friend. He had a cutting tongue and a way with insults, it was true, but César had never heard him say anything mean to someone outside of his closest group of friends. He teased Oscar and Thibaut constantly, but always good-naturedly, and they knew that he didn’t really mean what he said. He was a good listener, too. Anyone who had a problem could go to him, and he would listen carefully, sympathize, and offer advice. He never condescended and always seemed to truly care.

(“You’re the unofficial therapist of Chelsea House,” César joked to him one day.

“I’ve been to enough of them to know how it’s done,” said Eden darkly.)

Fourthly: César was truly, madly, deeply in love with Eden Hazard.

So actually, he was exactly sure how he felt about Eden. His problem was that he didn’t know what to do about it.

* * *

 

The mood in Chelsea House was bleak. That afternoon had been the scavenger hunt for the house competitions. By the time Chelsea finished, Manchester United had already been finished for almost half an hour. They taunted everyone else with a loud rendition of “ _Glory, glory Man United!_ ” Even the response of “ _Who the fuck are Man United?_ ” did little to lift anyone’s spirits.

Jose had yelled for about five minutes and then retreated to his apartment. Most of the other boys did the same, not wanting to talk to anyone, but a few, César included, headed up to the Bridge. From there, John Skyped his boyfriend Frank, who tried to cheer them up by telling them about his new school (not, from the sound of it, a very good one). His efforts failed miserably and Frank knew it, ending the conversation with a, “Sorry, I know nothing I can do will make it feel better.” Eventually everyone had trickled out and gone back to their own rooms to sulk in peace.

César was reading _The Tempest_ for his English class and, surprisingly enough, finding it fairly enjoyable. Nemanja was asleep. César had learned quickly that his roommate went to bed early and woke up at six every morning to go to the library and finish his homework. Although many roommates with such different sleep schedules (César rarely got in bed before eleven and usually spent another hour on his phone) would be unable to live with one another, both of them could probably sleep through an earthquake, let alone a light being turned on.

There was a tap on the door.

César shoved his book under the covers and flipped onto his side, closing his eyes. Usually Jose didn’t come upstairs to make sure you were asleep this late, but none of the students were allowed to be wandering around the house this late on a school night.

The door opened and César opened one eye halfway to see who it was.

Eden Hazard stood in the doorway.

César sat up. “What?” he whispered.

“I’m bored.”

César almost laughed. “So you decided to annoy me?”

Eden shrugged. “You don’t mind.”

It was true.

“Fine,” said César. “How can I alleviate your boredom?”

“Wanna come with me?”

He shouldn’t go, César thought. They would get caught and then they’d get in trouble and besides, he had homework.

“Where?”

* * *

 

“Dear God, Eden,” César said. “We’re not going to the Bridge at eleven at night.”

“No,” Eden agreed.

“Eden, these stairs go to the Bridge.”

“No shit, Sherlock. But that’s not the only place they go.”

“Don’t tell me. Secret passageway.”

“Sort of,” said Eden with a sly smile that made César certain that he would find out where they were going when Eden wanted to tell him and no sooner.

César had never been in the Bridge when it was completely silent before. The lack of shouts and television sounds was almost eerie. Out of the windows, he could see a cloudless night, the crescent moon shining as bright as the sun.

“C’mere,” said Eden, breaking the spell, and César went over to join him in the corner of the room. “Now look up. What do you see?”

“A trapdoor,” said César dutifully. “It’s the attic. Come off it, Eden, we’re not going in the attic, are we?” He looked again. “Besides, how do you open it?”

“Two options for that,” Eden said. “Either I stand on your back or we get a chair.”

In lieu of a response, César grabbed a chair and placed it under the trapdoor. Eden stepped onto it and gently pressed up on one end, his other hand holding the other end. Then the door swung down, a creaking wooden set of stairs unfolding with it. César quickly grabbed the stairs before they slammed onto the floor, allowing them to settle down gently. Eden hopped off the chair and climbed up the stairs, César right behind him, trying his best not to stare at Eden’s ass.

The attic floor was made of uneven wood. It was cold enough to make César wish he were wearing something more than sweatpants and a T-shirt. “This is it?” he said.

“Yep,” said Eden. “What were you expecting?”

“I dunno,” said César. “An Olympic-sized pool. A supersonic jet. Free food.”

“Just this,” said Eden. “And this.”

He grabbed a cord and pulled and it seemed that the ceiling was rolling back. The sky opened wide above them and César stared upwards in wonder. It was a skylight… a skylight so big César had no idea how it could have gone unnoticed.

“Seriously?” he said. “Where did this come from?”

“It's always been here,” said Eden. “But only a few people know about it.”

“How? Why?”

“Because,” said Eden, gray eyes sparkling in the moonlight, “no one thought to ask.”

He lay on the floor directly under the skylight, hands crossed over his stomach. “They all assumed the attic was just an attic. It’s a dangerous thing, assuming. Don’t do it.”

César lay down beside him. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” said Eden. “What’s going on with you?”

“Don’t lie to me, Eden Hazard,” said César. “Why are you up so late? Why did you come see me? You didn't just want to look at the stars.”

“I was waiting for a call from home,” said Eden, not meeting César’s eyes. “If you must know.”

“At eleven at night?”

“It’s the afternoon in Belgium.”

Of all the possible responses, César had certainly not expected this one.

“Belgium?”

Eden smiled. “My family lives in Belgium.”

“But you…” César didn’t know what to say. “You don’t have an accent!”

“My brothers and I grew up here.”

“And just moved?”

“No.” Eden smiled sadly. “It’s complicated.”

César decided to push him for more information on this front later, instead returning to what he had originally been wondering. “Anyway. What was so urgent that you had to stay up until eleven to hear from them?”

“My father,” said Eden. “He’s very sick. Pancreatic cancer. They don’t…”

César rested an arm on Eden’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s been a long time coming.”

“That doesn’t make it any easier.”

“Mm,” said Eden. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay.” Neither did César. “What do you want to talk about?”

“How about you?” Eden turned his head to look at César. “What’s your family like? I don’t know anything about them.”

“Um,” said César. “I’ve got an older brother. He’s in his first year of college. Juan Pablo.”

Eden didn’t say anything for an awkward moment, and then said, “And?”

“And what? I have a mother and a father, too, in case you were wondering.”

“And what do you do together? Are you close? What’s your house like? Where do you go on vacation? Do you have any pets? Extended family? Come on, Dave, tell me something interesting.”

“Fine,” said César, feeling slightly attacked. “I have a cat named Boq. He’s black with white feet.”

“Boq? What kind of name is that?”

“You’ve never seen _Wicked_?”

“My family’s not much into musical theatre,” Eden said. “All I know about that show is that the lady who played Elsa in _Frozen_ was the witch.”

“Idina Menzel, yeah. Boq is this guy who Elphaba’s sister falls in love with and then he turns into the Tin Man. Anyway, Boq my cat hates me ninety percent of the time, so he always sleeps on my brother’s bed. My grandparents live in Spain, and I only have one uncle. He lives in Alaska and I’m not sure he knows that I exist. Our house is this little raised ranch that just barely fits all our stuff, but it’s okay. We don’t do much, as a family. We usually go to Cape Cod for a week in the summer. We’ve gone back to Spain a bunch, too, but planes are expensive. All right, done. Your turn.”

“Three brothers, all younger. Thorgan is fourteen, Kylian almost thirteen, Ethan ten. Thorgan and Kylian and I fight a bit, but no more than you’d expect. My dad’s not around much. I went through three fish in three weeks when I was younger and wasn’t allowed to have a pet again. More cousins than I can count. We go to this house in the Bahamas every year for vacation, but we also travel around Europe a bit. Um… what were the other questions?”

“I don’t know! You came up with them!” said César, laughing and rolling onto his side. Eden laughed too, and César was overwhelmed with an urge to hold Eden and kiss him and he had a feeling that Eden would not object. After all, the attic, under the stars, felt like it could be straight out of a rom-com. If this were a rom-com, then right about now, someone would lean in and they would kiss and then they would both say, _I’d been wanting to do that since the day we met_.

César scooted a little closer, raised his head, lowered it, trying to work up courage. _Fuck it_ , he thought, leaning in.

“Hey, Dave,” said Eden. “What d’you think of me asking Kenedy out?”

César jerked away in shock. It took him a minute to find his voice, and when he did, he said, “Freshman Kenedy?”

“Do you know any others?”

César searched Eden’s face, waiting for him to laugh. _Just joking, I don’t like Kenedy, I like you, you idiot_ , said the Eden in César’s head.

Real Eden said, “He’s cute, isn’t he?”

“Yeah,” César managed. “He’s cute. What do you need my permission for?”

“I’m getting your blessing,” said Eden, scrunching up his nose in an impossibly cute way. “You’re my best friend.”

“Well,” said César. “As your best friend, I say sure. That’s great. He’s a nice boy. I mean. You’ll be good together. Yeah.”

“Okay,” said Eden.

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

“Well,” said César, trying to gain some semblance of normalcy. “This is awkward.”

“Okay.” Eden laughed and leaned his head on César’s shoulder. Feeling Eden, so close and so impossibly far from what César wanted, almost physically hurt. 

“Hey, I’m kind of tired,” said César, sitting up. “I’m going back to bed.”

Eden jumped to his feet and helped César up. “Sounds good.”

César didn’t sleep that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In good news, I now have a very specific idea of where this whole thing is going!


	5. In Which César Watches A Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eden is acting suspiciously. Barclays plays Ligue in soccer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank-you to everyone who has read, commented, and left kudos! Your support is what encourages me to write, and I honestly had no idea how this would be received, as there are very few fics about these two boys out there. Anyway, here's another chapter!

“Hey,” said Oscar. “Have you seen the Arsenal House Instagram?”

It was a sunny Saturday in the middle of October. César was watching Jimmy Fallon with Thibaut, the two of them sprawled on Thibaut’s bed. Oscar was sitting on the floor, scrolling through his phone. The three of them had just come upstairs from eating lunch.

“No,” Thibaut said. “All I know is that every single one of them needs to calm down on their personal Instas because they’re absolutely ridiculous. Selfie, selfie, selfie.”

“That’s essentially what this one is,” Oscar said. “Oh, look, Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain and Carl Jenkinson are definitely together. Ew, he’s licking Jenko’s face, why would you ever post something like that?”

“We can’t see what you’re talking about. No, don’t show us, we didn’t ask for that, either!” said César, becoming uncomfortably aware that he sounded like Eden.

“Speaking of whom,” said Thibaut, “have you noticed he’s been acting weird lately?”

“Yeah,” said Oscar. “Never hangs out with us anymore.”

“Well,” said César, trying to keep his voice even, “I guess he is dating Kenedy now.”

Thibaut and Oscar looked at him in amazement.

“Kenedy?” said Thibaut. “Freshman Kenedy?”

“Yeah.” Now it was César who was confused. “Right?”

“He can’t be,” said Oscar. “He’s never mentioned it.”

“Who’s never mentioned what?”

Eden stood in the door. César wondered how long he’d been there.

“Hello, Ed,” said Thibaut. “You’ve never mentioned that you’re dating Kenedy.”

Eden laughed, eyes flickering to César. “Who said anything about that?”

“Me,” said César. “Because you told me that you were going to ask him out.”

“Oh,” said Eden. “Well, I did.”

Thibaut laughed. “And he had the _audacity_ to turn down _Eden Hazard_?”

“Yes,” said Eden stiffly. “Because he just so happens to be dating Ruben.”

Oscar’s jaw visibly dropped. “How do we not know about that?”

“Because Ruben’s closeted and he doesn’t want many people to know.”

“What does he think we’ll do, call his mother up and say, ‘Did you know your son likes boys?’” said César.

“I don’t know!” said Eden impatiently. “Anyway, I was going to ask if anyone has seen my sock.”

“Which one?” said Oscar.

“My _soccer_ sock, Scar. I have to be dressed to warm up in fifteen minutes and I only have one sock.”

“Oh,” said Oscar. “I haven’t seen it since your last game. When you were wearing it.”

“Fuck.” Eden sighed. “It’s probably dirty and in my bag. I hate wearing dirty socks.”

“Borrow one,” Thibaut suggested.

“Ew, I hate wearing other people’s clothes even more. Nah, I’ll figure it out. Dave, are you filming?”

“No,” said César. “They gave me an afternoon off. I’ll be there, though.”

“You’d better be. All of you. I expect to hear you cheering when I score.”

“When, not if,” said Thibaut to César. “Cocky, isn’t he?”

If Eden could flip his hair, he would have done so as he turned around and exited, saying “If I am, it’s because I’ve earned the right to be,” over his shoulder.

* * *

 

Twenty minutes later, the three, joined by Kurt, were on their way to the field. They found Willian and Ramires in the crowd (cross-country didn’t have a meet that weekend) and sat down, enjoying the crisp autumn afternoon. An easy win was expected: Ligue had several excellent players (including a menace of a six-foot-five forward), but most of the rest wouldn’t make the Barclays bench. Indeed, Barclays led three to one at halftime. Eden had a goal and an assist, and the entire team was playing well. The attitude in the stands was one of calm happiness: for once, no one cared about house rivalries or homework or any minor barriers between them. The buzz of sound was punctuated only by spurts of laughter or cheers. In short, it was a day that made César feel happy just to be alive.

After halftime, though, one thing was clear: Ligue’s coach had instructed his players to do one thing and one thing only: take down the Barclays players. They targeted Sergio and Mesut and Cesc, but mostly Eden. It took five minutes for César to lose his cool entirely and join the rest of the Barclays support in screaming at the referee and the other team. The joy of sport, César realized, was that it brought people together, either in love (which was nice) or anger (which wasn’t so nice, but it was still togetherness.)

“You blind, ref?”

“What was that supposed to be?”

“How much are they paying you, ref?”

“What’re you smoking, ref? Fucking cunt!” This was Jamie Vardy, not known for his eloquence or ability to keep his mouth shut.

“Shall we sic Diego on them?” Thibaut asked. He alone was civil.

César tipped his head towards Vardy. “Why not let him go at it?”

“A hundred and thirty pounds of fury,” said Thibaut, shaking his head.

“I’m hungry,” announced Oscar.

His friends looked at him.

“What do you want us to do about that?” said Willian finally.

“Leicester House was selling pizza,” Oscar said, a grin on his face. “But I don’t have any money with me.”

“Shame,” said Willian, turning back to watch the game.

“Oh, I’ll go with him,” said César. “I wouldn’t mind something to eat. Anyone else want anything?”

His friends declined, so César and Oscar climbed out of their row and walked down the stairs and then along the side of the field. Hugo Lloris was taking a goal kick. César caught Eden’s eye and waved. Eden gave him a thumbs-up in return and turned back to the game.

“Hey,” said the sideline ref. “You guys shouldn’t be here, you know.”

“Sorry,” said César. “We’ll go around the back next time.” He rolled his eyes at Oscar, who giggled.

They bought two slices of steaming pizza and started climbing up the steps behind the stands to return to their seats. Oscar took a bite and yelped when it was too hot, sucking on his fingers to try to cool them, and César was still laughing when he heard a shout of pain from the field. The stadium drew in a collective breath.

“What was that?” said Oscar, suddenly serious.

“Someone must have gotten hurt.” César glanced around nervously.

“It sounded like Eden.”

César’s heart leapt. “You think?” he said, trying to keep his voice from shaking.

“Dunno.” They exchanged a glance and, just as Oscar opened his mouth to say something, César’s self-control abandoned him and he dashed up the stairs, taking them two at a time. At the top, where he could see over the crowd, his fears were confirmed.

Eden was lying on the ground, his entire body shaking. Jose was kneeling next to him, as was the school’s trainer.

“I’m—“ César started, but he couldn’t finish, instead pushing through the other spectators who had flooded into the aisle to try to get a better view.

“Dave!” shouted Oscar. “Dave, what’re you doing?”

César tripped over someone’s leg but got out and started running down the stairs. People had crowded into the aisle in the final two or three rows, and César tried to push through. A hand grabbed his shoulder.

“Let go!” César shouted, twisting to get out of his grip.

“Calm down, boy,” said the familiar voice of Gary Cahill.

“Get _off_ , Gary,” said César, feeling tears trickle down his cheeks. “Please, I need to see him.”

“I know you do,” said Gary. “They called an ambulance.”

“It’s bad,” said César, not a question.

Gary shrugged. “He’ll be okay, Dave-o.” He turned to the crowd in front of him. “Hey, you all need to make room. Dave’s got to get through.”

Maybe it was because they recognized César as one of Eden’s friends, maybe it was because they saw the desperation in César’s eyes, maybe they were just scared that Gary would bash their heads together if they didn’t comply, but everyone shuffled aside to let César through. He nodded thanks as he passed and ran to the sideline.

“Hey,” said a Ligue player with the curliest hair César had ever seen. “I dunno if you’re…”

César payed him no attention, but ran to Eden and knelt next to him.

“Hey… kid… get off the field… trying to… he’s…”

“It’s okay,” said Eden weakly. His face was contorted in pain, but he was… César wasn’t sure what he’d expected, actually, but Eden was better than that. “Dave. What’re you doing here?”

“Are you…” said César, unsure what to ask. Are you okay? No, obviously. Are you hurt badly? Yes, obviously.

“Am I what?” said Eden. “Dead, no; in pain, yes.”

Sirens blared; the ambulance had arrived. César saw Eden’s muscles clench. The other boy’s eyes searched wildly before finding César’s hand. He reached out and took it. César felt his heart skip a beat and then calmed himself. _He’s hurt, you can’t be thinking about… that_.

Medics with a stretcher came out. They rolled Eden onto it gently and he lost his grip on César’s hand. Eden let out a sharp cry and stretched to reach César.

“Okay?” said one of the doctors.

“César,” moaned Eden.

The doctor looked at César. “That you?”

César nodded. “Can I…” He gestured vaguely at the stretcher.

The doctor exchanged glances with one of his coworkers. “I don’t think…”

“Please,” said Eden.

“It’s okay if…” César said awkwardly.

“Sorry,” said the doctor. “Unless you’re brothers.”

“Yes,” said Eden. “Adopted.”

“No,” said César, although he was tempted to agree. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

César didn’t watch the rest of the game. Instead, he went back to his room at Chelsea House and lay on his bed. He might have cried; he wasn’t sure. When there was a tap on the door and Willian and Cesc entered, Cesc still in his uniform, César rolled over and pretended to be asleep.


	6. In Which César Is Lied To

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> César virtually brings Eden to class. César has dinner with freshmen. Eden returns from the hospital.

The text came at ten the next morning.

 

_Eden_ : heyyyy

_Me:_ omfg you okay?

_Me:_ i was so scared

_Me:_ i thought you were gonna die

_Eden:_ lol

_Eden:_ no one dies from a broken leg

_Me:_ it’s broken?

_Eden:_ compound fracture

_Eden:_ surgery this afternoon

_Me:_ well fuck

_Eden:_ yeah

_Eden:_ and i don't come back until tuesday

_Eden:_ out for the season, obv

_Me:_ that sucks

_Eden_ : idk how ill be able to get around in a wheelchair

_Me:_ not too many stairs here

_Me:_ and zoumi can carry you up to the bridge

_Eden:_ yeah its just annoying

_Me:_ i know

_Eden:_ well gtg my bff sharon the nurse just cam

_Me:_ good luck with the surgery

_Eden:_ thanks

 

César let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding. Eden was okay, he’d be in a wheelchair but he was okay, he was having surgery but he was okay.

* * *

 

César iPad rang with a FaceTime request as he was packing to go to math. He wouldn’t have answered, but it was from Eden.

“Hey, why’d you call me right now? I have math in four minutes,” said César.

“Hello to you too. My surgery went fine, thanks for asking. I’m feeling all right, in case you were wondering, just a bit of pain,” said Eden. “And I know that you have math in four minutes, because I wanted you to take me to class.”

“Oh,” said César. “I don’t know if that’s allowed…”

“Why shouldn’t it be? It’s for my own benefit. I’m sure as hell not learning anything here.”

“Fine,” César said. “But if I get in trouble, it’s your fault.”

“Oh, sure, blame it on the crippled guy, that’s fair…”

The bell rang and César slung his backpack over his shoulder, jogging down the stairs and across London quad. “This has got to be nasty in the winter.”

“It is,” Eden confirmed. “I keep saying we should build tunnels underground, but apparently that costs money.”

César slid into his seat just as the second bell was ringing. He propped his iPad up so it was facing the board. “That all right?”

“César,” said Martinez. “Turn that off.”

“It’s Eden,” said César. “He wanted to call into class so he wouldn’t miss anything.”

Martinez raised an eyebrow, presumably to signify _Since when has Eden Hazard cared about missing class?_ but nodded and said, “All right, so long as he is not disruptive.”

“Disruptive,” Eden snorted quietly, so only César could hear. “What does he think I’m going to do?”

“Not a clue. Shut up or I’m shutting you off.”

“Fine,” said Eden, for once managing to follow directions.

As soon as class was over, though, he spoke up again. “God, that was boring.”

“You didn’t have to go,” César reminded him.

“I know. I figured I’d better be a good student, though. Hey, I’m coming back to school tomorrow.”

“You are?” said César. “So everything went well?”

“Yeah. I mean, I’m still pretty drugged up on painkillers, but everything feels okay. I need to be in a wheelchair for two weeks, though, which is going to be so annoying.”

“That sucks,” César agreed. “Hey, have you—“

“Hold on one second,” Eden said, cutting him off. “My phone’s ringing.” He picked it up, listened for a moment, and then said, “Thor, I’m talking to my friend, can you just wait?” He turned back to César, looking apologetic. “My brother.”

“ _Tu as un ami?_ ” said the voice from the phone.

“Shut up, Thorgan,” Eden said. “Thorgan, this is Dave. Dave, Thorgan.”

“He’s the second brother, right?” said César.

“Right,” said Thorgan and Eden simultaneously.

“Eden, _Maman veut que vous l'appelez maintenant_.”

“I will after I finish talking to my friend,” said Eden impatiently. “I have something important to tell him.”

“Fine,” said Thorgan. “Be selfish, why don’t you.” He hung up.

“Sorry about that,” said Eden awkwardly.

“If you need to go…”

“I don’t. She probably just wants to check up on me for the third time today,” said Eden, rolling his eyes. “So anyway. I’m going to be out for the rest of the season, obviously.”

“That sucks.”

“Yeah, so I wrote to Jose to tell him so and then this morning, I had an email from him saying that they want me to commentate the games that are being livestreamed.”

“Whoa. That’s pretty cool,” said César.

“And,” Eden continued, “I wanted to ask if you would do it with me.”

“Me?” said César stupidly.

“Yes, you. Who else? I figured that would be more interesting for you than just filming, and you know soccer pretty well, don’t you?”

“I do,” said César. “I mean, yeah. I’d love to do it with you.”

“Brilliant,” said Eden, flashing a smile. “I’ve really no idea what we’ll have to do, but I’m glad you agreed. I told Jose you’d do it already, after all.”

* * *

 

“Hi,” said César, sitting down at the Chelsea table. The three freshmen were the only other ones there. “How’s it going?” They started giggling when they saw him, for some reason, and Kenedy slung an arm around Ruben’s shoulders.

“All right,” said Ruben. “Have you heard from Eden?”

“Yeah,” said César, hoping that the relief wasn’t terribly obvious in his voice. “He got a compound fracture and he’s getting surgery this afternoon, but he sounds okay. He made friends with his nurse.”

“Sounds like Eden,” said Kenedy. They ate for a minute, the near silence broken only by strange scuffling sounds coming from Ruben and Kenedy. César didn’t particularly want to know what was going on, so he didn’t ask until Kenedy burst out, “Ow, Rube, that hurt!”

“I thought we were supposed to be…” Ruben said, stopping himself and glancing at César. “You know.”

“What are you supposed to be?” César said suspiciously.

“Nothing,” Kenedy said quickly.

“Really,” said César. “Come on, tell me.”

They looked at each other hesitantly and then Ola said, “Oh, I’ll tell him. Eden wanted them to pretend they were dating around you.”

César’s heart stopped. When he finally got his breath back, he said, “He… you pretended… you’re not together?”

Kenedy cackled. “No, course not.”

“I’m straight, anyway,” Ruben added.

“Oh, sure you are,” Ola said.

“Fuck you, Aina. Just because y’all are queer as fuck doesn’t mean I have to be.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” said César, stopping their squabbling. “Did he tell you why?”

Ruben shrugged. “No. I guess he just wanted to prank you.”

“I guess so,” muttered César. 

* * *

 

Eden’s first day back merited much fanfare. This included a party at the Bridge (Kurt carried him upstairs with John following behind with the wheelchair) in which everyone tried to talk to him at once until Eden yelled at them to shut up and go one at a time. His first question: “What was the final score of the game?”

“Three-one, that big striker scored in the second half,” answered Cesc promptly.

“Okay, you can go back to being nuisances now.”

Which they did. A fight almost broke out when Diego wanted to play FIFA and Nemanja wanted to play Guitar Hero, but Branislav solved the problem quickly by suggesting that they let Eden decide.

“What makes you think I care?” said Eden. “FIFA. That’s always entertaining. God, what do you think I am, the fucking king?”

For his part, César avoided speaking directly to Eden. Apart from a quick greeting, they hadn’t actually had a moment alone, so there was no opportunity for him to… accuse him? Get a confession out of him? Tell him to go fuck himself? Perhaps it was good that they hadn’t been able to speak.

* * *

 

“Hey,” said César, opening Eden’s door. “Is Oscar here? No? Good, you and I need to talk.”

Eden sighed, spinning his wheelchair to face César. “About?”

“You know damn well what it’s _about_. I just talked to Kenedy and Ruben, and they said that you asked them to pretend to be together so you could play a prank on me. Thank God Ruben likes me enough to tell me.” César sat on Eden’s bed. “So?”

“Hey, who said you could sit there?”

“Don’t change the subject. You didn’t actually just want to prank me, did you,” said César.

Eden was silent for a moment, and then said, “Fine. The day after we went up to the attic, I asked Kenedy out.”

“Yeah.”

“And he said no.”

“Yeah.”

Eden laughed uncomfortably. “What do you want me to say? I was embarrassed. I mean, no one’s ever…”

“No,” said César. “No, I get it. Perfect Eden didn’t want to get rejected.”

“Something like that,” said Eden with a grin. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” said César, because of course it was okay. It was Eden.

“Hey, pass me my illegal drugs, would you?”

“Excuse me?” sputtered César. “Do I have to turn you in?”

Eden laughed. “Yeah, dumbass. I have coke and heroin in my sock drawer.”

“And you haven’t offered to share?”

“In all seriousness,” Eden said, “we’re not technically allowed to have any painkillers or any of that in our rooms, so everyone calls them illegal drugs. Haven’t you heard?”

“No,” César said. “Where is it?”

“Top left drawer.”

César opened the drawer, pulled out a bottle of Advil, and tossed it to Eden. “Here. It’s not very well hidden, is it?”

“They only suspended Wilshire for smoking, they’re not going to expel me for having Advil in my room,” Eden said with a shrug. “And you be careful about throwing shit around. I can’t really move, remember.”

“You caught it. Besides, it was a good throw.”

“Well, of course I caught it! I fucking play baseball!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooray for Google Translate French! It it's hideously wrong, let me know.


	7. In Which César Is A Commentator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> César and Eden commentate their first games. Chelsea House decides where to go for a trip. The house competition continues with an obstacle course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is a bit of a filler chapter, with some small mentions of things that will become a bigger deal later on. In other news, I'm going to be in the Bahamas (on an island referenced in this chapter, "coincidentally") for the next two weeks. I'll probably be able to write quite a bit but the internet rarely works there, so if you don't see any updates on here for a while, that's why.

“This is low-tech,” Eden complained.

“What were you expecting?” César replied.

They were sitting in the box where the scoreboard was usually controlled from. A table had been set up in front of them with the team sheets and stats on all the players. There were two microphones as well and a board that controlled them (they could manually turn off their own microphones if they wanted to). Eden was in his wheelchair, César on a stool.

“A lovely broadcasting studio with armchairs and assistants to bring us coffee and polish our faces,” Eden said. “Not a cobwebby box.”

“Welcome to the real world, princess,” said César.

Shinji stuck his head in. “You’re on in three… two… one…”

A red light came on on the microphone. Eden leaned in. “Hello, everyone! You may be wondering why someone is talking right now. The answer: for the rest of the season, you get to not only watch the game, but listen to us tell you about it! I’m Eden Hazard, and this is…”

“César Azpilicueta.”

“But you can call him Dave.”

They had practiced that beforehand.

* * *

 

The entirety of Chelsea House was gathered in Jose’s apartment. Eden had just been “freed from the confines of that hideous chair,” as he put it and was now on crutches, which tended to double as weapons and could also be smacked on the floor to accentuate a point. He was also using his “crippled” status to get any bit of special attention he could, to the point that he was allowed to sit on his own chair without anyone else trying to squeeze in beside him. César, Willian, Oscar, Thibaut, and Kenedy were squished together on one couch quite uncomfortably.

“So,” said Jose. “We have two items to attend to. First: the house trip.” For the benefit of the new boys, he added, “Every year, the week before spring break, each house goes somewhere of its own choosing. We do community service work and spend time together. Does anyone have any ideas?”

No one answered.

“Brazil?” Oscar suggested after an awkward minute.

“Yeah!” chorused about half the house, the few other Brazilians turning to their neighbors and expounding on the numerous merits of Brazil. Oscar looked pleased with himself.

“One problem,” said John when the noise had died down. “I can’t imagine flights all the way to Brazil are cheap.”

“Oh.” Oscar looked crestfallen.

“North America would be best,” Jose agreed.

Everyone looked at each other, trying to pretend to be thinking hard but actually praying that they weren’t called on to give a suggestion.

“If someone doesn’t say something, we’re going around the room,” Branislav said dryly.

“Okay,” said Eden. “What about the Bahamas?”

“Yeah!” said Oscar. “I went there once!”

“The Bahamas?” said John, looking doubtful. “I don’t know how much community service we could do there.”

“Lots,” said Eden, warming to his own idea. “I’ve gone to this little island with practically no tourists and most people there are really poor. We could do repairs, help at the schools, work at this nature preserve, anything.”

“All right,” said Jose. “We don’t need to know for another month or so, but then we’ll have to figure out plane tickets and a place to stay.”

“Not a problem,” Eden said confidently. “My family has a house there, big enough for all of us if we bring sleeping bags.”

“Ooh,” said Diego. “Fancy.”

“What, sleeping bags?” said Cesc, earning him a punch on the shoulder.

“We’ll make a final decision later,” said Jose. “The more immediate thing is the obstacle course this weekend. Five don’t have to run. One will be Eden, obviously. The others will be Jamal, Ola, Baba, and Papy.”

“Although,” said John quickly, “if any of you would like to run and there’s anyone else who doesn’t want to, speak up.”

“Yeah, right,” Willian whispered to César. “What Jose says is final.”

* * *

 

“Hello, everyone, and welcome! We’ve got a great game for you today: Barclays against Serie! I’m Eden Hazard, and this is…”

“César Azpilicueta…”

“What he said.” Eden shot César a grin. They were, by all accounts, becoming fairly good announcers. César looked forward to the games every week: him and Eden, watching soccer and bantering back and forth. Better yet, they had proved to be quite popular, or so people told them. “Today, by popular demand, we’re going to start with something a little different. Apparently you people want to get to know us better. So we have been requested to describe each other in three words.” He shot César a grin. “Here we go. I’ll go first. César in three words. Beautiful.”

César laughed and hoped he wasn’t turning red again.

“Hard worker. And…” Eden paused to think. “My friend.” They fist-bumped. “Your turn.”

“Gosh,” said César jokingly. “How do I follow that up?” _Don’t say beautiful, they’ll think you’re gay._ “Class, talent,” he said, ticking them off on his fingers. _Don’t say beautiful don’t do it._ “Neighbor,” he finished weakly.

“I’m not your neighbor.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I live downstairs from you!”

“That’s close enough to be considered neighbors.”

“Whatever,” said Eden. “Back to the soccer. I’d say Barclays are favorites for this one, but Serie could put up a fight. Would you agree?”

“I think so,” César said. “Barclays’ll have to get past senior Gigi Buffon in order to win this, though. Isn’t he related to Italian royalty?”

“Yeah,” Eden said. “The king is his uncle or great-uncle or something. He’s surprisingly close to the top in the line for the throne, actually.”

“Really?” said César. “I had no idea.”

“Yeah, it’s kind of crazy where these people who should be all famous turn up.”

* * *

 

“Guess who’s pissed!” announced Eden.

“You are,” said Willian dryly.

“How’d you guess?” said Eden, grinning and flinging his crutches to the floor so he could hop to the couch and flop down on it.

“No idea, Hazard. You’re not supposed to be hopping.”

“Do you want to know why?” said Eden, ignoring Willian’s admonishment.

“No, but I’m sure you’ll tell us.”

“Fine, be rude,” Eden pouted. “But anyway, the obstacle course is this afternoon.”

“We know,” César pointed out.

“And I want to run it so badly. I had the fastest time of anyone last year. In the whole damn school! And now my stupid leg is broken.” He glared at his leg as if that would solve the problem. “Stupid leg.”

“It’s okay,” said Nemanja from where he and Branislav were playing air hockey. “We’ll manage without you.”

“Well, sure, you’ll manage. But you won’t manage as well as you would with me. And this house needs all the help it can get at this point.”

“We can come back,” Branislav said firmly. “We have to.”

* * *

 

“Well, it’s official,” Eden said glumly. “We’re doomed.”

“Yeah,” said Asmir. “Doomed is actually a pretty good way of putting it.”

“At least you finished,” Eden said, offering words of consolation to César. “You did well.”

“I did okay,” César corrected. “I almost fell of that rolling log.”

“Yeah, well so did most other people. I took great pleasure in seeing Depay land on his ass.”

The obstacle course was almost over. One of the boys from Aston Villa had just fallen off on the first obstacle, a series of boxes that got increasingly far apart that you had to jump between. Eden commented on this: “At least we did better than them. I don’t think a single one of them has finished.”

“César,” Willian panted, jogging over to the three of them. “They want everyone who finished over there.”

“Is it over?” Eden asked.

“I think so,” Willian said. “Well, there’s no one on the course, at least.”

“You finished?”

“Yeah.”

“So we had three.” Eden shook his head. “Last year we had how many, nine?”

“Something like that,” Willian said. “C’mon, Dave.”

They walked off towards a big tent set up near London quad where many boys were already milling around.

“Someone said a hundred finished,” Willian told César. “Last year there were only eighty or so.”

“Mm.”

“What was the hardest part for you?” Willian asked. “I almost fell off the swinging chains.”

“Yeah.” César thought back to the course. “Actually, just between you and me, I touched the structure on that. Should have been disqualified, but…” He shrugged.

Willian laughed. “What they don’t know won’t hurt them.” The two had arrived at the tent, where Kurt was at their side immediately.

“Dave, Willi, thank god you’re here. Everyone’s laughing at us.”

“Screw them,” Willian said. “Keep your head up, Zoumi. If they’re going to be bastards, that’s all we can do.”

However, it was hard to even do that much when the results were announced. Chelsea House had the fifth fewest finishers, ahead of only Everton, Bournemouth, Norwich, and Aston Villa, and they were now in fifteenth place overall.

“This year sucks,” Eden said.

“Yeah,” César said vaguely.

“Correction,” Eden said. “It should suck. After all, the house is doing horribly and I’m injured. But it doesn’t.”

“No?”

Eden shook his head and said simply, “I’m glad you’re here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That describe-each-other-in-three-words game comes from this video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f_gD8KDStsU  
> To expand on the bit about Gigi Buffon being Italian royalty: this story takes place in a world where most European countries still have monarchies with significant power. Minor plot point, and just wanted to clear it up now, as this is first mention of it, I think!


	8. In Which César Watches A Final

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exams are coming up. Barclays is in the final of their division for soccer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back!!  
> Short chapter, but it's important.

Exams were fast-approaching, and everyone in Chelsea house seemed to realize it at the same time. John spent hours on the phone, presumably with his genius boyfriend. Cesc and Willian set up a strict study schedule and stuck to it. No one was allowed in their room when they were working. Oscar made himself a schedule too, proudly showed it to everyone in the house, and abandoned it on the second day. Eden, true to form, skimmed his notes once and relied on his near-photographic memory. Besides, he didn’t particularly care about grades.

As for César, he buckled down, made flashcards, and reviewed every single night. By the time the Saturday before exams came, he felt fairly ready. He was still having trouble with some graph transformations, but he could get Eden to help him with that. Besides, he had three more days until the math exam.

The play had happened last weekend. Mostly thanks to Shinji’s instructions and César’s minimal duties, the lighting had gone off without a hitch. Most other sports were done, too, with the exception of Prep soccer. The team had made it to the final of their division and were preparing to face Liga High School. The two had played each other once previously in the season, Liga winning three to one. However, no one doubted that Barclays could win. If they managed to keep Liga’s strikers quiet. The commentary for this game would be the last thing César would have to do this term outside of academics, and he was, he had to admit, sad that it would be over.

* * *

 

“Hello, everyone, and welcome to the final!” Eden shouted into his microphone. “I’m Eden Hazard, here with my friend…”

“César Azpilicueta,” César supplied. “How many matches have we done together, mate, and you still can’t say it?”

Eden grinned at him, a grin that no one else could see. “My friend Dave. All right, this is Barclays Academy against Liga High School. It’s star goalkeeper Hugo Lloris against top league goalscorer Lionel Messi. It’s the battle of tactical masterminds Jose Mourinho against Diego Simone. And if you’re a Liga supporter, you better mute us right now, because there is no way I’m going to be unbiased here. Just a warning.”

And he wasn’t. The game was feisty and yet the players were technically stunning.

“I hate to say it,” César said, “but the Liga attack is so good. You can’t imagine them not finding a way through.”

“I hate to say it,” Eden echoed, “but damn, I love watching Messi play.”

“I don’t envy Vincent Kompany one bit,” César agreed.

And yet halftime came and the Barclays defense held firm. Lloris made some outstanding saves. Ronaldo and Suarez each hit the woodwork. But Barclays had chances, too. Sergio missed two clear-cut chances. Nil-nil at halftime.

 “This could be decided by the coaches,” César said. “Both attacks are misfiring, they need a change.”

“Barclays could have the advantage there,” Eden said. “I feel it’s a deeper team, and Mourinho doesn’t have to worry about one of his divas throwing a temper tantrum if he takes them out—because he doesn’t have divas.”

Mourinho brought on Jamie Vardy to replace Sergio and Riyad Mahrez for Alexis.

“Well, this is interesting,” Eden said. “Vardy was called up midseason to replace someone—me—when I was injured. Mahrez has played six hundred minutes this season, and five hundred ninety-five of those came after October 7. He’s done well since then, though…”

In the seventieth minute, the breakthrough came. “Fabregas,” said Eden nervously. “Ozil… Mahrez… what the _fu_ —heck is Toure doing up there?”

“Mahrez puts it in the eighteen!” shouted César. “And Toure’s there…”

“YAYA TOURE!”

“GOOOOOOL, BARCLAYS!”

The stadium erupted into song. César switched the mic to one of the crowd ones so everyone could hear the shouts of joy. The entire Barclays benched leapt up and started hugging one another.

“It’s not over yet,” Eden said tersely. “We have twenty minutes to go and they have Leo Messi.”

Yes, they had Leo Messi. And in the eighty-fourth minute, Leo Messi nutmegged Toure, dodged Koscielny, and leaped over Kompany’s tackle to send a perfectly placed shot whizzing into the corner of the goal.

“ _Damn_ it,” said Eden. “He certainly left it late, didn’t he?”

“He’s too fast for this sport,” César said. “He should do cross country.”

But their complaints didn’t change the score: Barclays Academy 1-1 Liga High School.

“Extra time,” said Eden. “My heart’s not cut out for this. Dave, if I die, you can have my room.”

César’s heart wasn’t doing much better. His voice was shaking as he commentated on the game, and every time Liga got the ball anywhere near the Barclays box, he involuntarily let out a little shriek. The minutes ticked away… 110… 114… 115… 116… and they’d have to go to penalties… 117… they had a chance with penalties, didn’t they… 118…

Barclays got a corner. Cesc lined it up and the players waited in the box. Every Liga player was on defense; in fact, the only two players not there were Cesc (taking the kick) and Lloris (who was past midfield anyway.)

“Fabregas puts it in,” Eden practically whispered. “Come on, Cescky!”

“Too close,” César said mournfully. “Navas has it, no problem.”

But the Barclays players didn’t see that. More importantly, Cristiano Ronaldo didn’t see it.

Navas jumped to catch the ball.

Ronaldo jumped to head it.

Navas punched Ronaldo’s head. He fell and stumbled, unable to regain his balance. Ronaldo looked around in shock.

And Jamie Vardy, the only Barclays player stupid enough to think that he could get to the ball still, poked it into the goal.

“JAMIE VARDEEEEEEE!” 

“HE SCORED, HE SCORED, HE SCORED!”

Eden threw his crutches in the air, leaving César to be the responsible one. “Jamie Vardy, who has been excellent ever since getting the call-up to the varsity team, scores with two minutes remaining!”

“My God,” said Eden, calming down. “I swear, if they score…”

They didn’t score.

The whistle blew three times and the entire stadium rushed to get to the field. The noise was so loud, César was pretty sure the ground was literally shaking.

“And Barclays win the cup!” Eden said. “A shock goal from Jamie Vardy. What a game!”

“Thanks very much for watching,” said César. “I’m César Azpilicueta.”

“And I’m Eden Hazard,” said Eden. “And now we’ll turn our mics off so you don’t have to listen to us and instead can listen to five hundred absurdly happy teenage boys.”

He shut off the mics. 

“We did it,” said Eden.

“The team?” said César. “Or…” He realized that Eden was staring at him very intently and for some reason felt… he wasn’t sure what he felt. “Or us? We did it?”

“Both,” Eden whispered, and then they were very very close and then Eden’s hand was on César’s cheek and his lips were on César’s and César didn’t know what to do so he kissed Eden back. Eden’s lips were warm and tasted like something César couldn’t quite put his finger on, and he forgot that his ex-girlfriend had dumped him on the pretext of his lack of kissing ability, forgot that they were probably in the least romantic place in the world, and he leaned in closer, heart racing, wanting more, and then he slipped off his chair and landed on the ground.

“Shit,” whispered Eden, grabbing his crutches, scrambling to his feet, running a hand through his hair, looking everywhere except at César. “I’m sorry.”

César stood. “Don’t be sorry,” he said, grabbing Eden’s hand. “Come on, Ed, don’t do this to me.”

“ _No_ ,” said Eden so forcefully César took a step back involuntarily. “We can’t.”

He ripped his hand away and, slamming his crutches onto the floor, spun out of the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was actually the first scene I wrote and then I had to make up a whole damn story where it would fit.


	9. In Which César Mopes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eden and César have to apologize. The houses do skits. School gets out for Thanksgiving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinda a filler chapter that I've been meaning to post for the past three days... oops.

César had never previously thought that it would even be possible to hate Eden Hazard. To ignore Eden Hazard. To deny Eden Hazard.

He’d been wrong.

They didn’t fight. But they didn’t talk, either. In fact, it was almost a week after That Day and neither had said a word to the other. The closest to interaction they had come was when Eden had given César a pencil to borrow in math and César had given it back once class was over.

Everyone knew something had happened, but the only people who had asked César were Cesc and Willian. He hadn’t said anything: they’d probably already heard a story from Eden, and he figured that whatever Eden had made up was better than anything César could. Besides, they were Eden’s friends more than César’s.

So César was shocked when Nemanja said, “Hey, what’s up with Eden?”

“Nothing,” César said.

“By which you mean that you don’t talk to him anymore, so you don’t know.”

César was shocked out of a response.

“Oh, come on,” Nemanja said. “It’s pretty obvious. In fact, John would like me to let you know that if you guys don’t work things out, he’ll have to intervene.”

“Why?” César said, strangely annoyed at this. “Why does he get a say in what we do?”

“Because you are, and I quote, ‘disrupting the smooth runnings of this house,’” Nemanja said, making air quotes with his fingers. “In other words, you’re being obnoxious and getting on all of our nerves.”

At that moment, there was a knock on the door. Nemanja opened it.

Eden was standing there.

“I would like to formally apologize for my actions,” he said stiffly. “I was out of line and I acted without tact or consideration for you.”

“Apology accepted,” César said with equal coolness. Two could play this game.

When Eden left, Nemanja said, “That was the most bullshitted apology ever.”

“I don’t care. He lied to me, like, multiple times. I don’t get why everyone thinks he’s so great,” César said, trying to make himself believe his words.

* * *

 

The week of exams was also the week the houses had to practice skits that they had made up to perform for the next phase of the competition. Each house had to split into groups of five to make up skits about… anything. The house members would then vote on the best and that would be performed for the entire school. The unspoken rule regarding content was that you had to make fun of the other houses in your skits, but do it tastefully enough that the teachers, who were judging, would find it acceptable.

When they had first decided on groups, César had been upset that he wasn’t with Eden, who was in John’s group. César was in Branislav’s with Pedro, Kurt, and Kenedy. Now, though, he was relieved. If John’s group was run anything like Brani’s, there would have been lots of “collaboration” involved, and César did not want to collaborate with Eden.

From sitting in on the other groups’ practices, César soon was even more pleased with his group. Cesc’s group contained Diego, and most of Cesc’s time was spent telling Diego to shut up in a mix of English and Spanish. Gary had the unenviable task of getting Radamel, Baba, and Jamal to actually engage with himself and Ramires. Nemanja, Asmir, Loïc, Thibaut, and Bertrand couldn’t come up with an idea more interesting than “How about we make fun of Tottenham?” 

John’s group, on the other hand, had come up with a smart, witty script in which Willian was Man United, John Obi was Man City, Eden was a self-deprecating Arsenal, Ruben was Leicester, and John was (of course) Chelsea. Eden had written most of it and, while John was in charge of the more logistical parts of the performance, was also the director.

“Okay, Mikel,” he said to John Obi during a rehearsal that was open to the other groups to watch. “The thing you’re forgetting is that those City boys think they’re hot shit. Like, the rest of us should be their maids because they’re a bunch of rich brats. So kind of look down your nose at Willi, okay? Actually, never mind, don’t do that, that makes you look cross-eyed.”

They unanimously chose that group to perform. After being docked two points for swearing (“ _Wanker_ isn’t a swear, it’s an adjective,” Eden said in protest), they were awarded four points.

“ _Four_?” Diego said. “Bullshit.”

“We’re in fourteenth now,” Oscar said glumly. “Yippee.”

* * *

 

They left for Thanksgiving break the next day, much to César’s relief. Sure, they had just taken exams and their grades would come out over the break, but that was the last thing on his mind. He was mostly just excited to get away from seeing Eden, because he was never sure if he wanted to punch Eden or kiss him.

César’s brother, Juan Pablo, came to pick him up from school. Juan was a freshman studying accounting at the University of Connecticut. It wasn’t what his parents had dreamed of for their son, but it had taken a fight for them to make him go to college at all instead of joining a band.

After the requisite _how-are-you_ s and _how-are-class_ es, Juan turned to his little brother and grinned. “So. Have you met any girls?”

“It’s an all-boys school, Juan,” César said, rolling his eyes.

“That doesn’t make a difference to you, though, does it? Any boys?”

“If you mean boys that I’m romantically attracted to, no,” César said.

Juan looked at him. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

“You’re all red.”

“I am not!”

“You’re blushing.”

“It’s hot in here!”

“Come on.”

“Fine,” César relented. “I have a crush on this one guy.”

“ _Ooh_ ,” Juan said. “Name? What’s he look like?”

“His name is Eden, he’s about five-eight, short brown hair, grayish eyes.” César refrained from mentioning Eden’s other physical characteristics, as he wasn’t sure his straight brother would want to hear about a boy’s ass.

“Is he hot?”

“I guess.”

“Does he like you?”

César hesitated.

“No,” he said.

“You sure?”

“Certain,” said César. “I thought he might, but he definitely doesn’t.”

* * *

 

His parents were relentless in their interrogations of him. _How are classes, how are friends, are the teachers nice, how was the play, was that guy who did the soccer games with you your friend, have you been to any dances, are you in clubs, are you happy_. César answered the ones he could and deflected those he couldn’t. He told them about Cesc and Willian, who he knew they’d like, and refrained from mentioning Diego or Radamel, as they weren’t really the kind of people to tell your parents about.

He didn’t talk about Eden, either, except vaguely.

Indeed, when Cesc called, César’s parents ended up talking to Cesc and then Cesc’s parents. When they finally got off the phone, they had apparently planned to visit Catalunya on their trip to Spain in the summer. César didn’t find anything wrong with that, but it was a little… sudden.

Mostly, though, César was so bored he ended up reading the news for hours at a time. Big news about anti-monarchist movements around Europe and how the king of Belgium had supposedly been poisoned, little news about a new senior centre being built in town, news about sports and celebrities and technology and music. He entered the lottery to get _Hamilton_ tickets and didn’t win. He got his grades back: A’s in English, history, and physics, a B+ in French, and a B in math. Mr. Martinez wrote in his comment, _Should spend more time listening to the teacher and less time listening to his friends._ By _friends_ he meant, of course, Eden.

_That’s not going to be a problem anymore, Martinez_ , he thought.


	10. In Which César Gets An Apology

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> José leaves. César and Eden have a talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These chapters seem to be getting shorter and shorter... oops

When the boys returned from Thanksgiving break, there were two surprises waiting for them. First: a tree had been set up in Jose’s apartment and Christmas lights were strung along the stairway. Second: Jose’s apartment was no longer Jose’s apartment. It now belonged to Guus Hiddink.

“Jose got a new job opportunity,” Guus told them vaguely, and that was all he would say on the subject. 

Their new house head was an old Dutch man with white hair and round glasses who looked confused most of the time. He had no reservations about telling them that he only planned to stay for the rest of the year and then he could return to retirement. He had, in fact, been the head of Chelsea house many years ago and had decided to come back because of how much he had enjoyed it. César liked him well enough: he was fairly cheerful and had a good sense of humor, and he seemed pretty smart, if slightly senile. He told them all that he thought they needed a nice, long vacation. No one argued with that.

César had decided that if Eden didn’t come back to him with a real apology in the next week, he would make the first move. He informed Willian of this plan.

“Good,” Willian said. “Because I like both of you, and want to be friends with both of you at the same time. Besides, Eden’s been snappish lately and you just mope in your room.”

“I do not just mope!” César said indignantly.

“Yes you do, except when I make you come have human interaction.”

A week passed, and César had still not spoken to Eden. He was doing his math homework and simultaneously summoning the courage to confront Eden (as a form of procrastination) when his door banged open and Eden stood there.

“Hello,” said César.

“Hi,” said Eden. “Mind if I come in?”

Just hearing his voice made César grin like an idiot. He almost forgot to reply. “Oh. Sure, sit wherever you want.”

They ended up sitting on César’s bed together like they always did, with Eden leaning up against the pillows and César cross-legged on the other end. “So,” said Eden. “I want to say that I’m truly sorry, and my apology has three parts. First: I apologize for everything I did up to the kiss that implied that the two of us would be able to be together. I knowingly led you on with the full intention of not letting it go anywhere. Second: I apologize for kissing you, because I let my emotions get the better of me. Third, and this is the part I’m sorriest about, I apologize for everything that happened after. I shouldn’t have walked out. I shouldn’t have shut you out. I was a dick, and in my defense, I felt really, really bad the whole time, but that’s a bullshit defense. That’s it.”

He sat back like he expected applause. César hesitated. For a fleeting moment, he wanted to tear Eden apart, tell him that nothing he had done was in any way acceptable and that they could never be friends again.

The moment passed. César laughed.

“How long did you rehearse that?”

Eden laughed, too, more out of relief than finding anything funny about their situation. “Believe me, I practically wrote a book over break that went into detail on everything I did wrong and how I was an evil human being.”

“Well,” said César. “It’s not like I wasn’t at fault, because I shouldn’t have been so damn desperate. Besides, I could have talked to you instead of acting like a six-year-old. So you’re forgiven for part three, because I was just as bad. You don’t need to apologize for part two, because I…” He laughed nervously and trailed off. Some things were better left unsaid.

“Me too,” Eden said with a cheeky grin, as if he could read César’s mind.

“And as for part one, I was eating up everything you were giving me, so that’s understandable too, really. In fact, the only thing I don’t forgive you for was what you didn’t apologize for.”

“Yeah?”

“The lying.”

Eden sucked in a breath.

“Tell me why, exactly, we can’t be together,” César said coldly. He would not allow Eden to get away with this.

“Okay,” Eden said. He looked away, gathered his thoughts, and looked back. “I’m going to tell you right now that I can’t tell you, but I’ll say as much as I can.”

“You can’t tell me.”

“César, I swear, I would if I could. This sounds so stupid, but it’s for my safety and the safety of my family.”

“Fine,” César said. “But if I don’t like what I hear…”

“I get it. You’ve got all the power in this relationship.” Eden laughed nervously. “While a relationship between us would work while at school, it would be unable to go anywhere because of my family. I have told my parents that I am bisexual, and their response was, ‘Well, that’s okay, so long as you end up with a girl.’ I told them that it wouldn’t necessarily work that way, but they didn’t want to hear it. My father is a prominent figure, and essentially, if his son was gay, he would lose most of his allies. I would probably lose a lot, too. That’s why I have tried my hardest to stay away from any relationship. I had a huge crush on Willian last year, and I avoided him until I realized that I wanted to have him as a friend, not a boyfriend.”

They were both silent for a moment. Finally, César said, “Bullshit.”

“Huh?” Eden looked shocked. “I bared my soul to you, and this is what you say?”

“Your soul wasn’t bullshit,” César said. “How many high school relationships go somewhere?”

“No, you don’t get it. I want this to go somewhere, I really do—“

“That wasn’t the question. You like me, I like you. For now. I want to be with you and I’m pretty sure you want to be with me. Why don’t we give it a try here?”

“César,” said Eden, “I don’t think you get it. I am really, really bad at giving up and even worse at doing things halfway.”

“I am, too,” said César, hoping that this was true. “I think that between the two of us, we can make this work.”

“Yeah,” Eden muttered. “It’s either going to be perfect or it’s going to go down in flames.”

“Stop being so pessimistic and help me with my math homework,” César said, grinning despite Eden's dark words.

“This is why you wanted me back,” Eden said, moving to sit next to César. Their hips brushed, and even the light contact sent shivers down César’s spine. “You’d fail pre-calc without me.” He brushed a light kiss to César’s forehead.

“Eden Hazard,” said César.

“Yeah?”

“I thought you were bad at half-assing things.”

Eden grinned and enveloped César’s lips in his own, both of them smiling through the kiss.


	11. In Which César Has A Boyfriend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mostly just everyday stuff, honestly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm at camp, which is great but has very little free time. Anyway, here's another chapter, finally.

The news spread like wildfire.

“Eden Hazard is dating César Azpilicueta.”

“I thought they were fighting.”

“Apparently not anymore.”

“Dammit, I wanted him.”

“Which one?”

“Eden!”

Eden took it in stride, like he was used to being stared at and talked about. César tended to laugh and hide behind Eden, a tactic that had worked very well so far.

“I feel like a celebrity,” César said one day at dinner after noticing a bunch of Tottenham freshmen staring at them.

“You are,” said Eden, kissing his cheek.

“Stop being so cute,” Diego said. “I can’t eat with you two around.”

“Aw, you jealous?” Eden said. “Davy, can I kiss him and make him feel better?”

“No,” said Diego and César simultaneously.

César had made JV swimming. His backstroke was one of the best in the school, but due to the mess that was the rest of his strokes and his general lack state of fitness (mediocre at best), he hadn’t managed to make varsity. Still, even JV swimming was hard, and he was hurting after a fairly brutal practice.

Nemanja threw his sports bag on an empty chair on his way by the table, looking angry.

“What’s up with him?” said the boy who defined _looking angry_.

“Varsity basketball may have had a difficult practice today,” Eden said, stifling a smile. Because he was still not allowed to play sports (unless you counted physical therapy, which no one did), he was acting as manager of the varsity basketball team. As far as César could tell, his only responsibilities were showing up at practice and running the scoreboard at games. 

Nemanja, now with a plate of spaghetti, sat down and began shoveling it in his mouth.

“Hungry?” Eden asked mildly.

“Just a little, bitch,” Nemanja said. “Amazing what ten suicides can do to you.” He took another bite and then, through marinara sauce, said, “Sorry for calling him a bitch, Dave.”

“It would seem he deserves it,” César said. “Continue.”

“Unfair,” Eden said. “I didn’t keep making you do ‘one more, one more!’”

“I know,” said Nemanja. “But I’m not interested in speaking to anyone who sat there and watched us suffer.”

“Actually,” said Ruben, who was on JV basketball, “I’m pretty sure he wasn’t just sitting. I definitely saw some laughing.”

“Not laughing,” Eden protested. “Crying in empathy for my lovely peers.”

“You’re lucky I’m pretty much dead,” Nemanja said. “Or else you’d be all the way dead.”

* * *

 

The first snow of winter came on a Wednesday afternoon when César was in English. 

“Look!” said Danny Drinkwater. “It’s snowing!”

As soon as class was let out, what seemed like the majority of the school rushed outside to throw snowballs at each other. Vincent Kompany, it soon transpired, was one to be avoided in snowball fights. César could see why he was the starting pitcher on the baseball team. Kenedy, who had never seen snow before, had a less sophisticated approach: he would grab your shirt and pour snow down it. Everyone was late to sports and no one cared at all.

Suddenly, the mood of the entire school changed. Jurgen Klopp led a small band of teachers in spontaneous Christmas caroling at meals. The two Manchester houses stopped insulting each other by way of greeting. Neither Jamie Vardy nor Diego Costa picked single fight. 

César realized that for once, he felt genuinely happy almost all the time. Not giddy or excited, but simply happy. In fact, the only times he didn’t have this general sense of contentment was during a physics test and when he realized that this wouldn’t last. A week until Christmas break became five days which became three, two, and then it was their last full day. Sports were cancelled that afternoon, so César, Cesc, Willian, and Thibaut all went to Oscar’s and Eden’s room and played Monopoly until Eden landed on Willian’s square, went bankrupt, and threw the board in the air.

“Hey!” protested Oscar. “I was about to win.”

“Stupid game,” Eden said. “You weren’t about to win, anyway.”

“We’ll never know now,” Oscar said grumpily. 

“Whatever,” Cesc said. “We should be playing Trivial Pursuit, anyway, for tonight.”

That night was the trivia competition between the houses.

“No need,” Eden said. “Asmir knows all sorts of useless shit, he’ll manage it for us.”

* * *

 

“Wilhelm the Second was Queen Victoria’s grandson.”

“Nephew.”

“Grandson.”

“Dammit, Asmir, he was her nephew!” said Eden, slamming his fist on the table.

Asmir rolled his eyes. “Fine. Go for it.”

John looked between the two of them. “Nephew?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” John raised his hand, calling over Scudamore. “Um. Nephew?”

Scudamore shook his head, making a mark on his clipboard. About half the table glared at Eden.

“Oops,” said Eden ,unrepentant.

“Idiot,” Asmir muttered.

“Sorry I don’t memorize royal family trees in my spare time.”

“Okay, okay,” John said, stopping the argument before it got too far. “None of the rest of us knew, and if we had, we should have said something. Okay?”

“Yes,” said Asmir sullenly.

“Eden?”

“Sorry.”

“You have ten seconds,” Scudamore said, directing his words at a desperate-looking Aston Villa.

“Son,” said one of the Villa boys. The rest of his house blew up at him.

“Son? If he were her son, he’d be king of England, wouldn’t he?”

“At least try to sound smart, why don’t you?”

Scudamore sighed. “That’s time. All right, time to give the scores.”

The table flipped up on the screen behind him. Gary groaned and banged his head on the table.

“Ow,” said Oscar.

Meanwhile, Arsenal house was cheering: they’d moved into first place.

“Fuckers,” Ramires said. “God, I can’t stand them.”

“They’d better watch out,” Willian said, pointing to the board. “They’re even on points with Leicester House.”

“Yeah,” Pedro said, snorting. “If they keep chatting shit, Jamie Vardy’ll bang them.”

* * *

 

Eden’s ceiling was nice, César realized. Well, not really. There was a stain in one corner that resembled a rabbit. He was about to make this observation to Eden when said boyfriend kicked something, screamed, and said, “Would you get off your lazy ass and help me?”

“Ed,” César said, “I have no sympathy for you, given that you were the one who kicked it in the first place.”

“It won’t close,” Eden said with a pout. “If you must sit down, sit on the suitcase and help me zip it.”

With an exaggerated sigh, César jumped on Eden’s suitcase. “I hope you don’t have any valuables in there.”

“Nope,” Eden grunted, yanking on the zipper to close it. “You’re leaving soon?”

“Juan said he’d be here in ten minutes about five minutes ago.”

“So this is goodbye,” Eden said, smiling sadly. “We won’t see each other for two weeks.”

“But we’ll talk,” César said. “Right?”

“Of course.” Eden looked like he was about to say something more when his phone rang. “Hold up,” he said, fishing his phone out of his pocket. “Hello? Thorgan, _pas maintenant,_ okay? _Vous êtes à l’aéroport_! Fuck you, Thorgan!” He paused, a glare on his face. “ _Non, lui dire la même chose. Où_?” He sighed dramatically. “ _Je ne vais pas à se calmer. Bien. À plus tard._ ”

He sighed and threw his phone at the wall. César winced reflexively.

“Did you understand any of that?”

“I got the _fuck you, Thorgan_ bit,” César deadpanned. “Is everything okay?”

“Bloody brilliant,” Eden sighed. “My parents have decided that I will not have the privilege of going home this Christmas, as we will instead be spending it in the Bahamas.”

César bit back a sarcastic _Poor you, you have to go to a tropical island._

“I ‘ave not been to Belgium in a year,” Eden said. “I was very much looking forward to it.” When he was emotional, César had noticed, he tended to slip into a French accent.

“Okay,” César said carefully. “Would you like to trade? You can go to Pennsylvania, I’ll go to the Bahamas.”

“I’d love to,” Eden said. “Can we trade obnoxious brothers, too?”

“I bet your brothers are cute,” César said. His phone buzzed. “My brother’s here.”

“Okay.” Eden wrapped his arms around César, kissing his neck. “We’ll talk.”

“I’ll call you every day.” César pressed his lips to Eden’s forehead. “Wanna help with my bags?”

Eden hesitated and then shook his head. “I have to repack my bags, apparently, given that I’m now going to an entirely different climate than I anticipated.”

“Okay.” César tightened the embrace, breathing in Eden’s scent. “Miss you.”

“I’ll miss you more.”

“It’s not a competition.”

Eden grinned up at him. “But if it were, I would win.”

“I know, I know. You win everything.” With significant effort, César let go, kissed Eden one more time, grabbed his bags, and went downstairs. Willian was waiting on the stoop, face obscured by the hood of his huge coat.

“Going home?” Willian said.

“Yeah. When does your flight leave?”

“Six,” Willian said. “But we leave for the airport in fifteen minutes. I’m going to give Kenedy another ten and then drag him down here.”

“He lives near you?”

“San Diego,” Willian said. “Close enough, I guess. Have a good break. We’ll talk, yeah?”

“Yeah,” César said, looking out at the icy path. “If I don’t fall and break my neck.”

He made it to the front gate of the school safely, however, where several other students were waiting for their own parents to arrive. Juan was already there, however, the second car in line. César tossed his suitcase into the trunk and hopped in the front.

“Good?”

“Yep.”

“Cool,” said Juan, driving away from the curb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The pace of this is probably going to be speeding up for two reasons: 1) I suck at fluff (sorry) and 2) I just started working on the sequel (which I'm super excited about!!) Also, I kind of adore nineteenth-century European politics (particularly in Germany), which is why the Wilhelm/Queen Victoria trivia.


	12. In Which César Dances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys return from Christmas. Willian gets a strange email. Barclays hosts a dance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I'm back! I got a concussion two weeks ago (protip: don't attempt to slide tackle your brother in a field with random rocks scattered everywhere. Just don't do it) and was only recently allowed to look at a screen for significant amounts of time, so that was fun.  
> And what else is back? The Premier League! I'm excited for the season, and by 'excited', I mostly mean nervous. I keep telling myself that there's nowhere to go but up. Except for down.  
> Anyway, enjoy!

The first night back from winter break, Chelsea house gathered in Guus’s apartment for a meeting. Matt Miazga and Alexandre Pato had just joined the school, while Ramires, Papy, and Jamal had left. Matt was from New Jersey, Pato from Brazil. He spoke little English but his wide smile never seemed to leave his face.

“Next on the agenda,” John said. “The dance.”

“The Valentine’s Day dance,” Eden corrected.

“The dance which has no affiliation with any holiday, Hallmark-created or otherwise,” John said.

“Despite its falling on February Thirteenth,” Eden said in a stage whisper.

“To which every house assigns one person to form a planning committee,” John continued, ignoring Eden. “Eden was on the committee last year, so he’s not allowed to do it again. Anyone who’s interested, email me and then we’ll vote. Cool? All right, that’s all I’ve got for tonight.”

“You should do it,” Eden said as they were walking out.

César laughed. “Me, plan a dance?”

“Yeah! It’s not bad, really. I liked it.”

“Eden,” said César. “I can picture the scene in my mind. It involves twenty opinionated boys yelling at each other until someone gives up. While you have no problem with that form of democracy, I don’t think I could take it.”

“It’s not quite that bad,” Eden said cheerfully. “Although being loud is certainly an asset.”

* * *

 

“Hey,” said César as he and Willian were walking to the gym. “Congratulations on getting on the dance committee.”

Willian laughed. “Thanks. It should be interesting.”

“Do you know who else’s on it?”

“No. I haven’t asked. We have our first meeting this weekend, though.”

“By the way,” Willian said, “There’s something you should probably know.”

“Yeah?”

Willian dropped his voice. “Oscar and I have both received weird emails from someone.”

“Who?” César said at the same volume.

“I don’t know,” Willian said. “I tried to track his IP address and couldn’t get anywhere. He—or she, I guess—rerouted the message at least five times and then I basically hit a wall. A different email address was used each time, but we’re pretty sure they were from the same person, or group, I guess.”

“What did they say?”

Willian hesitated.

“I know you remember, Mister Photographic Memory,” César said.

“Yeah,” Willian said. He closed his eyes and said quickly, “ _Eyes are everywhere. Stay alert. Take care._ ”

“A warning,” César said, the chills on his back clearly not from the cold.

“It would seem so,” Willian said. “It could just be someone from another house who happens to be really good with computers trying to prank us.”

“That makes the most sense,” César agreed. “You and Oscar didn’t know each other before coming here, did you?”

“Nope. No common friends outside of school, either. But if ‘eyes are everywhere…’”

“They could mean that we’re being watched.” César hated spy movies and he didn’t want to be part of one.

“I sure as hell hope not,” Willian said. “I’ve told Eden, Thibaut, and Cesc already. I figured that since the first two were in our friend group, another might come to one of us, too. Anyway.” He glanced around. They were almost at the gym and there were several other boys nearby. “Just thought I should let you know.”

* * *

 

César held up a third shirt, this one a pale green, to his chest, gritted his teeth, and threw it back on his bed. Eden would undoubtedly look amazing, and he didn’t want to be the awkward guy hovering next to him all night. Well, that would probably happen regardless, but he at least wanted to look good while hovering awkwardly.

“Decided yet?” Nemanja said from his bed, where he was scrolling through his phone. He was going alone and in a simple black shirt and jeans. He looked good, too. César mentally debated abandoning his plan of button-down-and-khakis and going for a similar look before deciding that he would probably look stupid like that, too.

“No,” César said with a sigh. “Help?”

Nemanja shrugged. “I don’t know, man. Why don’t you just wear the first one?”

César picked it up the shirt, a cornflower blue. “You think it’s okay?”

“Sure,” Nemanja said. “What are you nervous about, anyway?”

César hesitated. It would be his first time being with Eden as a boyfriend around people who weren’t from Barclays. They would likely talk, and there was nothing Eden hated more than people talking. He might decide that they would have to split up to avoid anyone noticing them. Besides, César hadn’t been to a real high school dance in more than a year. What if he made a fool of himself?

“Nothing,” he said, swallowing down all of his nerves. “Blue it is, then.”

* * *

 

The Chelsea boys (minus Willian and Ruben, who were setting up the gym) were already gathered in the common room to walk to the gym when César and Nemanja descended the stairs. 

“Finally!” Kenedy shouted. “Where’ve you guys been?”

“Shut up, Ken,” Eden said good-naturedly, seemingly appearing from nowhere to meet César at the bottom of the stairs. In a crisp white shirt with navy-blue pants and jacket, he made César’s heart skip a beat. As César hugged him, breathing in the scent of his cologne, he was almost overwhelmed with the revelation that Eden was his. “You look good,” Eden whispered, alleviating César’s fears immediately.

“So do you,” César said. “I feel underdressed.”

“You’re not,” Eden said immediately.

“Well, compared to you…”

Eden laughed a laugh that said that he knew precisely how good he looked and that he had ultimate confidence in his looks. “Compared to me, you’re perfect. Just like always.” He stood on his toes to kiss César’s cheek, fingers wrapping around César’s hand. “Okay?”

“Everyone here?” John said. “All right, then, let’s go or we’ll be late.”

It had been getting steadily colder all day, and by the time they started walking over, the temperature was in single digits. Eden took the opportunity to bury his nose in César’s side. César wished he were wearing a coat.

“Fuck, it’s cold,” John Obi said.

“The teachers’ll be glad,” Branislav said. “They won’t have to worry about anyone having sex outside.”

Several big buses were outside the gym. César recognized some of the boys from the Liga soccer team getting off of the first one. The lobby was still cold due to the door’s constantly opening to let more people in.

“Let’s go find food,” Eden said, pressing himself closer to César. 

“We just had dinner,” César said absently.

“Not to eat, so we can get out of here,” Eden said as if it should be obvious. “Come on.”

They maneuvered their way through the crowd. A couple of people nodded as they passed, recognizing Eden from soccer or César from swimming, and César recognized a couple of them. The music pumping from inside the gym didn't seem to have any words, just a steady beat and a decent bass line. César wrinkled his nose. “Do they play any decent music here?”

“Eventually,” Eden said. “They get everyone in there, then do a slow song or two, and then do somewhat better music until the end.”

“Um,” said César. “How much dancing do you actually want to do?”

“All of it,” Eden deadpanned. “Joking. I don’t care. Most of it’s not really dancing, you know? Most of it’s moving to the beat and trying to keep the awkwardness at a minimum and occasionally doing the robot.”

“Good,” César said, relieved. “Because I can’t dance.”

“You’ll be fine,” Eden told him. “Want a cookie?”

* * *

 

They spent some time near the food table, talking to other Barclays boys and some people from the other schools. Finally, Eden sighed and reached his arms up, stretching.

“I don’t know about you,” he said, “but I’m about to fall asleep if we don’t do something.”

“Oh,” César said. “Dance?”

“Sure. It’s slower now.”

César listened, and indeed, the music was slower. He didn’t recognize the song, probably because he didn’t recognize most songs. “Let’s go.”

They made their way into the gym. César looked at Eden helplessly. “What do I do?”

“Hands here.” Eden grabbed César’s hands and placed them on his own waist. “And I do this.” He wrapped his own arms around César’s neck. “And then just kind of…” He paused to listen to the music. “I can’t remember much more than a waltz at the moment, so just make it up, I guess.”

“Am I leading?”

“Yeah. Don’t be nervous, you’re fine. Back. Now right. Left. Watch out!”

A pair of boys César recognized from Liga careened into them. One of the partners mouthed, “Sorry!” and the other laughed.

“I’m an awful dancer,” César admitted. “Sorry if I step on you.”

“No worries,” Eden said. “I don’t think these slow songs at high school dances can be anything other than awkward.”

“What, you don’t like the opportunity for conversation?”

“No,” Eden said. “It’s okay with you, because you’re nice to talk to. But the rest of them…” He gestured vaguely at the other couples around them. “Half of them are avoiding eye contact because they don't know what to say and the other half are just making out because they don’t know what to say. Conversation is hugely important.”

“Okay. Any other life advice?” It was true, César thought, feeling bad for everyone who didn’t have someone as incredible as Eden Hazard to dance with.

“Plenty,” Eden said. “Don’t dance with your friends during a slow dance, either, because everyone will hate you if you’re being stu—“ A phone rang in Eden’s jacket.

“Shit,” he said. “Turn off your phone, too.” He pulled it out to check it and his face went white. “ _Merd_. It’s my mom.”

“Take it if you have to,” César said, trying to hide his disappointment.

“I really should,” Eden said. “I’m sorry.”

“No problem. I’m getting thirsty anyway.”

Eden picked up his phone, walking briskly away from the crowd of people. César, lost, stood still for a moment before heading to the side as well.

“Hey, Dave!” he heard, and then turned to see Oscar and Willian standing together. He made his way towards them.

“You guys aren’t dancing?” César said jokingly.

Oscar shuddered. “We’re observing.”

“Where’d Eden go?” Willian said. “Weren’t you two just dancing?”

“His mom called,” César explained.

“Ooh, you got dumped. Sucks,” Willian said. César kicked him good-naturedly.

“Hey,” said a voice from behind César. He turned to see a tall boy with a mass of wildly curly hair, one of Ligue’s defenders.

Oscar’s face lit up. “David!”

He practically tackled the other boy, and the two of them started talking in rapid-fire Portuguese. Willian, who was Brazilian in origin but who had lived in San Francisco since he was little, said in a stage whisper, “Don’t worry, I can only understand a little bit.” César knew that this wasn’t true, but he laughed anyway.

“Sorry,” David said. He turned to César. “I don’t think we’ve ever formally met, but I’m David Luiz. I’m the guy who tried to tell you that you weren’t supposed to see Eden when he was hurt.”

“I remember,” César said. “I’m César Azpilicueta, the guy who was going crazy because he thought his friend was dying.”

“Speaking of that friend, did he ditch you guys?” David said. “Talking to his girl?”

“He doesn’t have a girl,” César said.

“He’d better not, at least,” Willian said. “Given that he already has a boyfriend.”

David looked between Willian and César and then gave César an astonished look. “You’re dating Eden Hazard?”

“No need to sound so shocked,” César joked. “But yeah, we’ve been together since December.”

“And he’s abandoned you the night before Valentine’s Day?”

“He’s talking to his mom, he said,” César said, worry beginning to niggle his brain. It didn’t have anything to do with Eden abandoning him. 

“Sure,” said David knowingly.

“Shut up,” Willian said.

Why was he talking to his mother now? Why was it so urgent? Eden’s dad was sick, wasn’t he? 

“His mom?” Willian said. “Isn’t she in Belgium?”

“I think so,” César said. “He said his family had moved back there.”

“César,” Willian said urgently. “It’s two in the morning in Belgium.”

“Oh, shit,” César said, the implications of that settling in. “His dad’s been sick for months now…”

“Yeah,” Willian said quietly.

“What do I do?” César said, entirely out of his depth. “Should I go check on him or let him be?” The closest thing to a boyfriend losing his father that César had ever had to deal with before was that in third grade, the hamster of a girl who had decided one day that César was her boyfriend had died. César, who didn’t even like her, had offered her a lollipop in consolation, but he didn’t think that that would be of much help here.

Willian hesitated, and Oscar jumped in.

“Give him some time,” he said. “He likes to be alone when he’s angry.”

“Who likes to be alone when he’s angry?” said Eden from behind César.

César turned around. “Oh my god, stop sneaking up on people!”

“I wasn’t sneaking,” Eden said haughtily. “I was walking normally. It’s just impossible to hear anything in here.”

“Are you okay?” César said carefully. “Was that your mom?”

Eden looked at him curiously. “Yes, it was.”

“And… is everything okay?”

“Brilliant,” said Eden, his entire face lighting up with a smile. “My dad’s in remission. The chemo’s working.”

Eden’s words took a second to sink in, and then César practically tackled him with a hug. “Oh, Eden, that’s incredible!”

“I know,” said Eden, grinning like an idiot and looking happier than César had ever seen him. “I know. I was starting to think…” He took a breath. “It doesn’t matter now.”

“We thought something was wrong,” Oscar said.

Instead of remarking on the insensitivity of that comment, Eden just said, “So did I, but then I realized that I’d probably hear it from someone else before her. She doesn’t usually like to talk about sad stuff. Hi, David,” he added, seemingly noticing the Ligue boy for the first time.

“Yo,” said David. “Good news about your dad.”

“Seriously. Lads,” he said to the group at large, “It was lovely speaking to you, but…” He winked at César. “My dance was interrupted, and I plan to finish it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, in case you couldn't tell, my dancing experience is limited. Sorry about that. But I feel like every high school AU has to have a school dance, right?


	13. In Which César Takes a Trip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> César gets a weird email. The Chelsea boys go to the Bahamas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm about to go back to school (mixed emotions there) and decided I had to get one more chapter out (particularly in honor of César's birthday today). However, contrary to rational thought, perhaps, I actually suspect that I will write more during the school year. During the summer, this is the closest thing to homework I have, so I procrastinate on writing. Soon, I fear, this story will be my refuge from English essays.  
> Anyway, hope you enjoy!

César skimmed through the fourth email he had gotten in as many days about the upcoming service trips. Each one said essentially the same thing: you’re representing Barclays Academy, so don’t fuck up. He opened the next unread email and started to read.

_Run or fight. Or just ignore. I warned you, though._

He read it again, and then once more, as if the text would change. Each time, his stomach seemed to leap higher into his throat.

“Shit,” he said finally. “Shit, shit, holy fucking shit.”

“What?” Nemanja said. “Everything okay?”

“Hold on,” César said, jumping up holding his computer and running across the hall to Willian and Cesc’s room.

Both were lying on Cesc’s bed watching something on YouTube. “Oh, hey,” Cesc said. “Are you okay?”

“Willian,” César said. “I got one of those emails.”

Willian was off the bed immediately, taking the computer from César’s hands and sitting back down. His hands flew across the keyboard. César stood watching him, feeling like he was in a spy movie, barely able to breath until Willian tossed the computer aside in disgust.

“The IP address couldn’t be found,” he said. “How could the IP address not be found?”

“You don’t know where it came from?” César said.

“Nope. Damn it. Sorry, César.”

“It looked cool, though,” Cesc said. “Can you hack?”

“I’ve never tried,” Willian said. “I guess I could probably figure it out.”

“Cool.” Cesc looked at César. “ _Qué dijo el mensaje?”_

“No Spanish, please,” Willian said, rubbing his eyes. “I’m too tired to figure it out.”

César quoted, “‘Run or fight. Or just ignore. I warned you, though.’”

“And you got one, too,” Cesc said, nodding at Willian. “And so did Oscar. The question is, who’s next?”

“My money’s on Eden,” Willian said. “Or you, but more likely Eden. Actually, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already gotten one.”

“He hasn’t,” César said with certainty. “He hasn’t mentioned it, at least.”

“Yeah,” Willian said with a shrug. “I just think that there’s a lot of stuff that Eden Hazard doesn’t mention.”

* * *

 

“Is everyone here?” John said sleepily.

When no one answered or even attempted to count, he said, “All right, just make sure your roommate’s here.”

“The roommate groups are probably here,” Eden said, surprisingly awake-looking for one-thirty in the morning. “I highly doubt any of us would leave their roommate asleep. Except Diego, but Pedro’s here.”

Diego mustered the strength to give him the middle finger.

“True,” John said. “All right, travel groups. Everyone get in their travel groups.”

They shuffled into four vague groups. César’s group comprised himself, Eden, Willian, Oscar, Ruben, and Kenedy. He looked around at the other three groups, all of which seemed to have six people.

“Everyone good?” John asked. “All right, let’s go. Guus should have the van outside.”

He didn’t, not entirely surprisingly. Branislav and Asmir went off to find him while everyone else sat down and tried not to fall asleep. They finally returned with the two vans: Guus driving one, Steve Holland, who worked in admissions, with the other.

“Unfortunately, each van only has seatbelts for ten of you,” Steve said. “So I’ll try not to get pulled over.”

César ended up in the back row of Steve’s van pressed up against the window with Eden’s hip digging into his own. “You can sleep on my shoulder if you need to,” he told Eden.

“Kind of you,” Eden said. “But I don’t like sleeping in cars.”

“Well, fine,” César huffed. “I was just trying to be romantic.”

Eden laughed and kissed César’s cheek. “That’s sweet of you.”

* * *

 

There were surprisingly few people in JFK, probably due to the time (4:00 AM). César stifled a yawn and blinked rapidly to stay awake. He’d had to wake up at 1:45 and had gotten barely three hours of sleep.

“I’m going to nap on the floor,” Oscar said. “Good night.”

“Don’t, idiot,” Willian said. “It’s almost our turn.”

The group of boys led by Branislav and Thibaut was standing at the counter. Cesc and Diego’s group was up next, and César’s was behind them. They had split into four groups of six, and Kenedy and Ruben had joined César, Eden, Willian, and Oscar.

“Mm,” Eden said. “Dave, can I sleep on you on the plane?”

“Sure,” César said. “What did you think I was going to say, no?”

Eden shrugged. “Oh. Also, I call the bed when we get there.”

“The bed, singular?” Willian said.

“Yep,” Eden said cheerfully. “That’s Kylian’s room when it’s just our family. There’s one double bed and we’re going to pull in a trundle. Four of you are on the floor. Well.” He winked at César. “Unless two are willing to share.”

César suspected that he had turned red again.

“Fine,” said Willian. “But no _funny business_ , you two.”

“Who, us?” Eden said innocently.

“Yes, you. Now come on, it’s almost our turn. Where’s your passport, Eden? My God, you’d think I was your mom.”

* * *

 

“Your gate is B14. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Nassau.”

César could feel the heat coming off the tarmac as they exited the plane. He looked at Eden. “I guess I shouldn’t have worn jeans.”

“It was cold at school,” Eden said matter-of-factly.

Because they weren’t staying on Nassau, the capital island, the Chelsea boys were able to go into a special line at customs. Eden laughed at the families stuck in the long main line. “Tourists.”

“We’re not?”

“Nope. We’re visitors.”

Once they were through customs, Eden turned around. “You guys can follow me. I know where to go.”

“Eden,” John said, “isn’t the check-in place that way?”

“Yup,” said Eden with a grin. “We don’t need to do that.”

A man in a white uniform walked toward them. Eden waved. “Marc!” he shouted. “ _Comment allez-vous_?”

“ _Je suis bien, monsieur_ ,” the man said. “ _Combien d'entre vous sont là_?”

“Twenty-six,” Eden said with a grin. “But I can copilot, right?”

“No, _monsieur_. I do not think your parents would like that.”

“I’m joking, Marc. All right, _allons-y_.”

“Yes, of course,” said Marc, leading them away.

Eden took César’s hand, grinning. “Used to be a pilot in the Belgian air force. Now he pilots jets.”

“You have a jet?” César said. He’d always had the idea that Eden’s family was fairly rich, but he hadn’t realized just how much they had.

“It belongs to a friend of my mom’s,” Eden explained. “We use it every time we go to the Bahamas, though.”

Marc led them through a door that said, in red letters _AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY_ and onto the tarmac.

“Where is it?” Oscar said.

“Over there,” Eden replied, waving his hand vaguely forward.

Oscar squinted at a tiny prop-plane with two windows. “Are you sure that’ll fit us?”

“Not that one, Scar. The one behind it.”

Even if the Hazards didn’t have their own jet, they certainly were well-connected. In fact, it didn’t even look like a jet. It was almost as big as the plane they had taken to Nassau. César had never even seen one in real life, let alone get anywhere near one. Marc pulled down the stairs. 

“Holy shit,” César heard John say.

While not terribly eloquent, _holy shit_ was a pretty good description of the jet’s interior. The room they walked into had a pair of couches along the walls as well as two chairs facing a television. The floor was carpeted and the walls a pristine white.

“You can look around,” Eden said nonchalantly. “Bathroom’s in the very back, and there’s a bed, too, if anyone’s tired.”

As everyone else headed down the hall to explore, Eden flopped down on a couch and kicked his legs up. “I wonder if they fixed the TV.”

“The TV doesn’t even work?” César joked. “What a crappy deal.”

“Seriously,” Eden said. “You know, we might want to go back to the dining room if you want to see any of the water.”

“The dining room?”

“Yeah. I doubt there’s much food on board right now, but we can check.”

César shook his head in wonder as he followed Eden through a room with what looked like a conference table, at which several of the boys were seated, and into a little kitchen, where most of the others seemed to have congregated.

“Can I eat this?” Pedro asked to no one in particular before taking a bite of a granola bar.

“Eat it all,” Eden said belatedly. “It belongs to my mom’s friend. She can afford some extra snacks.” He pulled a Coke out of the minifridge.

“It’s ten in the morning, Eden,” Thibaut said disapprovingly.

“Your point?” Eden popped open the can and clinked it against Pedro’s granola bar. “To the Bahamas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I don't know shit about computers, so if you do, just pretend that what Willian did was impressive...  
> 2\. The first part of the trip to the Bahamas is pretty autobiographical. The private jet part is not.  
> 3\. Once again, Google Translate French! If it doesn't make any sense, let me know!  
> And, unrelated to the story, but Eden has been fabulous so far this season and it makes me so happy.


	14. In Which César Arrives on an Island

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys get to the Bahamas and set up house.

César could have stayed on the jet for much longer than the twenty-minute flight. Still, he was excited to see the shape of a long, thin island coming into view. The plane landed with nary a jolt—it certainly was comfortable—and then they were let out into the smallest airport César had ever seen. There was one building with one room. One woman was scrolling through her phone at a check-in desk, and a couple of people were sitting on uncomfortable-looking blue chairs.

“Unfortunately,” Eden said, “the cars aren’t nearly as swanky as the plane. We can fit five in each, more if we squeeze together. The house is only four kilometers away, though.”

They agreed that Guus and Steve would each drive a car with anyone who wanted to ride. That number was, unsurprisingly, small: most people wanted to see the island and stretch their legs.

César thought they must look strange: a group of eighteen teenage boys, most in jeans totally unsuitable for the climate, walking along the side of the road. An old truck with three young men in the back rattled past. The sky was a cloudless light blue. Either side of the road was overgrown with brush. The occasional crab skittered across the road. Eden pointed out landmarks as they walked.

“That house is painted a different color every year… That’s an old resort, the water’s like glass over there… A crazy guy owns that restaurant. Don’t walk down his beach or he’ll latch onto you and not let you go until he forces you to eat a burger.”

They turned left onto an even smaller street. Straight ahead, the bushes parted and provided a view of deep-blue ocean.

“Not far now!” Eden said happily.

“Is the beach over there?” Ola said.

“That goes onto rocks, and then our beach is to the left,” Eden said. “Want to see?”

They walked forward, and then someone shouted, “First in the ocean!” and everyone broke into a run. They crested the hill and reached the rocks, splashing through puddles in the rocks. Eden pulled away as they reached the beach and most of them slowed to kick their shoes off and drop their bags, but he turned around before reaching the water, shouting, “Come on, seeing this for the first time doesn’t inspire you to run a little faster?” Willian tackled him and Kenedy dove into the ocean.

“Suckers!” he cheered gleefully upon coming up for air. “Shit, I’m soaked!”

“That’s water for you,” Eden said, shoving Willian off him. “It tends to be wet.”

César rolled up the legs of his jeans as far as he could and waded into the surf. Kenedy had overcome his shock at the water’s wetness and was now hurling himself into the waves gleefully. Eden slipped his hand into César’s. “Not bad?”

“Not half bad,” César said. “Passable.”

“We can go snorkeling out there,” Eden said, pointing. “And there’s a kayak we can take out, too.”

“Just us?”

“They can come, too. I guess.”

* * *

 

When they had had their fill of playing in the ocean, Eden led the group up a set of wooden stairs to the house. It was pale yellow with a stone veranda overlooking the ocean. Palm trees waved in the front yard, and a hammock hung between two of them.

“You know,” Eden said thoughtfully, “I can’t remember if I actually gave Guus a key. I think there’s one on the car keys, but I don’t know…”

But then the sliding glass door opened and Thibaut stepped out. “You went swimming without us!” he said indignantly. “And we were up here cleaning up!”

“Oops,” Eden said unapologetically. “Well, we’re here now!”

With twenty-six working together, it didn’t take long to sweep the house out and move their suitcases in. The house itself was light and open, except for the room that César’s group would be staying in, which was little more than a largish closet with two beds squeezed in. Eden claimed one for himself and César, Ruben and Willian declared themselves to be ‘fine on the floor,’ and Kenedy and Oscar were left to duel for the remaining bed. They ended up compromising on switching every night, unless one of the two decided that he would be happier on the floor. Each seemed equally convinced that the other would be the first to break.

By then it was late afternoon, time to order pizzas and go to bed. John, Eden, and Cesc were elected to get the pizza: John because he could drive, Eden because he knew where it was, and Cesc because he was the only one who wasn’t practically asleep.

César couldn’t really remember what the pizza tasted like. He ate leaning up against the couch, Eden asleep on his lap. The newscaster on TV was talking about an antimonarchist protest in England outside of Buckingham Palace, but no one was really paying attention. Ruben said, “Wankers,” absently. When Cesc asked him if he was talking about the protesters or the royalty, Ruben apparently didn’t hear, or at least didn’t respond. Finally, one by one, they trickled off to bed until only César and Eden were left.

“Ed,” whispered César, poking Eden’s shoulder. “Eden, wake up.”

His boyfriend’s eyes fluttered. “What?” he said.

“You can sleep on the floor if you like,” César said, “but I’d prefer to go to the room.”

“Carry me?” Eden said teasingly.

“Very funny. How old are you, six?”

“And a half.”

“Come on.” César stood up and pulled Eden up with him. Oscar had commandeered the trundle bed for the night and barely stirred when Eden and César climbed over him.

“‘Night,” Eden whispered sleepily.

César smiled as their hands twined almost unconsciously. “Good night,” he said, and was almost immediately asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge apology needs to be offered for seemingly forgetting about this for such a long time and then coming up with this tiny chapter. (I didn't forget/stop working/go on hiatus, I just was absolutely swamped.) This is about a third of what was originally intended to be one chapter, but I decided that I would rather post something short than nothing at all.


	15. In Which César Gets Married

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys volunteer at a school. César makes friends with a little girl. Everyone goes out for dinner.

When he woke, César’s overwhelming impression was that he was hot. This was not helped by the fact that he had somehow rolled onto the trundle bed in the middle of the night and had Oscar’s arm thrown over him. To compound matters, Eden had rolled so that he too was half on top of César.

“ _Vá embora_ ,” Oscar said, still asleep.

“ _Casse toi_ ,” Eden muttered, almost in response.

Oscar turned over, smacking Eden in the nose in the process.

Eden was immediately awake. “Ow!” he yelled in protest. “Who did that?”

Oscar, clearly still mostly asleep, blinked at him. “Huh?”

“Well, this is cozy,” Eden said, scooting back onto his own bed. It seemed, César thought, that Eden was the sort of person who didn’t wake up slowly, but rather all at once. “Turns out we can all fit in the beds.”

“Go back to sleep.” A mop of black hair, presumably with Willian attached to it, appeared at the foot of their beds.

“Nope,” Eden said cheerfully. “You’ve slept for ten hours!”

“And I’ll sleep for another ten. If you’re going to be loud, do it somewhere else.”

“I’m going back to sleep,” Oscar said, rolling over.

“Dave?”

“Yes, I’ll come,” César said, not nearly as annoyed by this turn of events as his voice would give away.

Upon leaving the room, César saw that almost everyone else was already awake. Pedro was stirring something that looked like pancake batter in a large mixing bowl and trying to keep Diego out of it, while some other boys were sitting on the couch.

“Are you making pancakes?” Eden said hopefully, almost magnetically drawn towards the kitchen.

“Yes,” Pedro said, clutching the bowl close to his chest. Eden made to dip his finger in and Pedro turned away from him directly towards Diego, who swiped some batter triumphantly. “And neither of you are getting any if you keep this up!”

“Fuck you, Ped. That was uncalled for,” Eden said lightly. 

The smell of pancakes cooking woke up everyone else one by one, until finally everyone was scattered around the main room eating breakfast. It was just past eight thirty and a light sea breeze carried the salty air into the main room. Pedro passed off cooking duties to Cesc and then Asmir, as there seemed to be more and more demand. Finally, Asmir declared that no one was getting any more, much to Oscar’s dismay, as he had just woken up.

“Shut up and listen to Guus,” John said.

“But I only had one!”

“You should’ve woken up earlier.”

Oscar muttered something about how he would next time, if this was how he was to be treated.

“Okay,” Guus said. “We’re going to the school in town today to help the first-through-third grade students. We’ll shuttle you over by travel groups, so I want the first two groups to be ready by nine.”

After several matches of rock-paper-scissors and only one major argument, it was determined that César’s and John’s groups would be the first to leave. The other groups gloated.

“Wankers,” Eden muttered.

“You’re just mad that they saw through your strategy,” Willian told him. “You do rock every single time.”

The school was right in the middle of a town that included two grocery stores, a gas station, and a couple of gift shops. A few boats were anchored in the glassy bay and a pair of men sat on a pier, fishing rods dangling into the water. When they pulled up to the school, a young woman greeted them.

“You Gus Hiddink?” she said.

“That’s me,” said Guus. “I’m going to go back for the rest of our boys, leave this group here.”

With Guus gone, John stepped up to the teacher and shook her hand. “I’m John Terry.”

“Tracy Reynolds,” she said. “Nice to meet you all.” She had a lilting Bahamian accent. “The kids can’t wait to meet you.”

The interior of the school was small but cheerful enough, with the Bahamian sunlight streaming through the open windows and crayon drawings pinned on the walls. The children themselves were scattered around at little tables.

“Students!” said Tracy. “Here are the boys!”

The kids all looked up. A little boy shouted hello.

“Hi!” Eden said. “I’m Eden.”

A couple of shy _Hi, Eden_ s echoed around the room.

“If you boys want to split up and help them with their math, that’d be great,” Tracy said.

Eden was the first to move, heading over to the nearest table, where two boys and a girl were sitting. César followed him.

“Hey, guys,” Eden said. “What are your names?”

“Ricardo.”

“Sam.”

“Norma.”

“And I’m Eden.”

“I’m César,” César added. “Nice to meet you. What are you working on?”

“Adding,” Sam said.

Eden glanced at the workbook that the three were sharing between them. “Good stuff. So what do you think about that problem?” He indicated one that read, _Jack has four apples. Jane gives him three apples. How many apples does Jack have?_

“Seven!” Norma said. “Easy.”

“She’s smarter than you,” César told Eden, who punched César’s arm good-naturedly as the boys laughed.

* * *

 

At noon, the kids went outside for recess. Norma, who had quickly taken a liking to César, grabbed his arm and pulled him along. “Come on, let’s play house!”

Her house turned out to be under a palm tree, where she and a few other girls had drawn lines in the sand. Norma pointed out the bedroom, kitchen, and dining room, and then told him that she was to be the daughter and he was her boyfriend.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” one of the other girls, who had been designated the mother, asked.

“Yeah,” César said. “Norma, remember?”

“A real girlfriend!”

“Oh. No, I don’t,” César said with a grin. He hesitated and then decided to say it. What did he have to fear from a couple of little girls? “I have a boyfriend, though.”

They looked at him for a few seconds, confused, and then Norma said eagerly, “What’s his name?”

César grinned. “It’s Eden. You already met him.”

Norma squealed. “That’s so cute!”

“Yeah,” César said. “I like him a lot.”

* * *

 

They returned to the school the next two days. At recess on the third day, Norma announced to César, “We’re going to have a wedding for you!”

“Oh,” César said. “Who am I going to marry?”

“Ed, silly!” she said. “Come on!”

One of her friends had already gotten and brought him to the ‘house.’ Eden grinned at César. “I never thought I’d be getting an arranged marriage.”

“You didn’t know? My parents had us matched when you were born.”

Norma stood before them, a huge grin on her face. “I now pronounce you man and… um, man. Now you kiss!”

César kissed Eden’s cheek. “We’re married now.”

“That was easy.”

* * *

 

They went into town again the next day to help make repairs on the library and spent the last two days at a nature preserve. The final night, everyone went out for dinner at a restaurant in town. The restaurant was right above the beach, with steps leading onto the sand. The boys sat at two tables pushed together outside. A band played soft Caribbean music as the waves crashed against the shore.

“I’m not leaving,” Ola said, echoing everyone’s thoughts.

But soon enough they had to leave, carted back in groups of four until Eden, César, Cesc, Diego, John, Gary, Kenedy, and Ruben were the only ones left.

“We’ll go last,” Eden said, speaking for himself and César.

“That’s fine,” John said. “So I guess Gaz and I’ll go with Ken and Rube.” Cesc had started chatting up a pretty girl earlier in the night and they’d since disappeared.

Once they had left, Eden strolled up to the bar.

“Two Sands.”

The bartender looked at him suspiciously. “How old are you?”

“Seventeen,” Eden said, flashing a brilliant smile. “But my friend there’s eighteen. The other one’s for him.” He gestured to César, who tried to look eighteen.

“You got money?”

“Course I do.”

He slid two bottles over and Eden passed him a few bills. César couldn’t see how much he’d paid, exactly, but it was far more than necessary for two beers.

“Tip,” Eden said brightly, taking a swig from the bottle. “Come on, Dave.”

César followed him onto the deck. “So, do you do that often?”

“What, lie about my age? It’s one year. What’s the difference between sixteen and seventeen, really? Besides, I’m European. I’ve been drinking wine with dinner since I was five.”

César, whose parents only allowed him to have a watered-down flute of champagne on New Year’s, took a sip gingerly. The alcohol seared his mouth.

“Have you never drunk before?” Eden said, amused.

“I have,” César said defensively. “Not a lot.” When he was a freshman, he’d gone to a party and played beer pong under the impression that it was Coke. Upon learning that it wasn’t, he had called his mom and left early. “Never more than, you know. A Solo cup.”

“This is pretty crappy stuff,” Eden said. “But I like it.”

He tapped César’s bottle with his own. “Cheers, Davo.”

“Cheers,” César whispered, downing another gulp. It was better, he thought, not to dwell on the taste. Just think about the feeling.

“This is going to sound like drunk talk,” Eden said, “and I’m warning you, I’m not drunk. Obviously. But do you ever think it would be cool to be famous?”

“I guess,” César said. He paused. “But then I think about it and I realize that I really wouldn’t like it.”

“What about if your parents were rich and famous and you just got to live off of them for the rest of your life?”

“Rich, that would be nice. But famous would be worse, because then I’d be famous for something I didn’t even do.” He peered at Eden. “Your parents are rich.”

Eden wrinkled his nose. “Not really rich. More just well-connected.”

“Sure,” César said impatiently. “Well-connected to rich people. How’d that happen? How do you get a private jet to fly you to the Bahamas?”

“Let’s not talk about this,” Eden said.

“You brought it up.”

“No, it’s a valid question and a valid conversation. I just don’t want to argue tonight.”

Neither did César, now that he thought about it. The night was cool, with a light breeze. “How long do you think we have?”

“Fifteen minutes.”

“Not long enough.”

“For what?” Eden asked.

“Anything.”

“That’s deep,” Eden said thoughtfully. “Fifteen minutes is a shit amount of time. Just long enough that you feel bad sitting around lazily but you can’t really accomplish anything, either.”

César snorted. “It’s not deep.”

“It’s at least insightful.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

Without warning, Cesc popped up next to them.

“What are you doing?” he asked. “Is that beer? Is that illegal here?”

“Doesn’t much matter, does it?” Eden said. “Given that we’re drinking it.”

“Well, you could have told me that you were getting drinks!”

“Diego said you were talking to a girl,” César said.

Cesc sighed. “And she was boring as hell, too.”

“I bet hell’s quite exciting, actually,” Eden deadpanned.

Cesc flipped him off. “Very funny. Anyway, you’re going to need to dump those, because it’s time to go.”

Eden groaned. “Seriously?”

“Steve told me to go find you.”

Eden made a face but put his beer down. César followed suit. “All right, let’s go.”

“Can you smell that we’ve had a drink?” César asked Cesc. He certainly didn’t want to be turned in for half a bottle of crappy beer.

Cesc shook his head. “Not really, but don’t breathe on anyone.”

They quickly changed and got in bed once back at the house. According to Eden, the jet would leave around ten the next morning, giving them enough time to finish the last of the cleanup without having to wake up at a ridiculous hour.

Willian looked at them suspiciously. “What were you two doing?”

“We may have had a quick drink,” Eden said quietly. “But no one else needs to know that, all right?”

Willian rolled his eyes and Ruben giggled.

“Shut up!” Eden said, going to close the door. “Sorry, Guus. We were just turning out the light.”

As César was about to fall asleep, he heard Oscar mumble, “How come you can get away with stuff like this every time? If I went out for a drink with my boyfriend, I’d be kicked out of school.”

“Cause you’re an idiot, Scar. You’d probably ask Guus if it was okay,” Eden said, and César fell asleep with a smile on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may have noticed, I've put a tentative final number of chapters (four more plus an epilogue). Guys, this thing is nearing an end.


	16. In Which César Feels Attacked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> César and Eden talk. César goes home and then back to school.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: there is mildly graphic violence in this chapter.

When César woke up, Eden was sprawled half on top of him, fingers absently twisting at César’s hair. No light came from outside, and none of the others were awake yet. Ruben snored gently.

“Hi,” Eden whispered.

“What time is it?” César said blearily.

“Five fifteen. Wanna go outside?”

“I want to go to sleep,” César said. “Yes, I’ll go outside. Why? It’s not sunrise yet, is it?”

“No. Come on.”

They tiptoed around the sleeping figures on the floor and stepped outside. There was just a hint of light on the horizon, and the crashing of waves and humming of insects was the only sound. They walked down the path, hand in hand, until they reached the bench at the top of the stairs to the beach.

“D’you go here a lot?” César said. “With your family, I mean.”

“Yeah,” Eden said. “Every summer, we come here for two weeks. I sleep in the room across the hall, Thorgan and Ethan are in the room that we’re sleeping in, and Kylian has the closet. I’d invite you to come next time, but I don’t know if we’re going.”

“Your dad?”

“Yeah.” Eden looked at his feet. “He’s looking better for a while, but I’m not getting my hopes up yet. Besides, I’m not sure my parents would be thrilled to meet my boyfriend.”

“Your brothers seemed nice.”

“Thorgan and Ethan, yeah. Actually, when Ethan was six he asked why boys always married girls even though boys were much cooler. I don’t think he’s ever come out officially as gay, but he sure hasn’t hidden it. Kylian’s a little weird about it, but it’s fine.” Eden sighed. “Let’s not talk about family and shit.”

“Agreed,” said César. “What should we do, then?”

In lieu of an answer, Eden wrapped his arms around César’s neck, swung his legs up and over César’s so that he was sitting sideways on the bench and pressed his forehead to César’s. “Kiss me?”

César did so; for how long, he wasn’t sure. Eden’s lips were soft and warm, the waves relaxing, the morning air salty and fresh. They were gentle; they had time, all the time in the world. There was no need to rush.

“This is romantic,” Eden mumbled, nuzzling into César’s shoulder. “Let’s stay here.”

“Send body doubles onto the plane for us.”

“And I’ll become a fisherman and you can be a teacher.”

“You’d be a crap fisherman. You’re too impatient.”

“Am not,” Eden said. “You have so little faith in me.”

“Pick your battles, dearest,” César said. “Fishing is not nearly exciting enough for you.”

“I’d rather have something unexciting than a dangerous job, though,” Eden said thoughtfully. “I’m not sure I could deal with death as an occupational hazard.”

César laughed. “Then don’t go into the military.”

“Wow, great plan. I guess anyone could die, though. You could die fishing. What a way to go. How do you want to die?”

“I haven’t thought about it,” César said. “This conversation has taken a weird turn.”

“Not weird at all. Death and taxes, right? We’re humans. We have to think about death.”

“Morbid.”

“Fine, if you want to be that way,” Eden said. “ Hey, do you want to stay with me in New York for the rest of break?”

“You’re staying in New York?”

“With my aunt and one of my brothers. We can go to a show—I know you like those.”

“I do,” César said. “But I’ve got to go home. I can’t just go running off to the city.”

“Just the weekend, then. Please, I’m begging you. I don’t want to be alone with my ten-year-old brother.”

“We’ll see,” César said. 

“That means no, doesn’t it.”

“No, it means that my parents definitely aren’t going to let me leave a second earlier than necessary.”

“Fine,” Eden pouted. “What about this summer? Do you want to come visit me this summer?”

“It’s a little early to be thinking about summer,” César said. “But I’d love to. I’ve never been to Belgium.”

“Or if Belgium’s too hard,” Eden said, a bit too hastily, “I’ll probably be in San Diego for a while.”

“Belgium would probably be easier, since I’ll be in Spain anyway.”

“Brilliant. We’ll go to Belgium and hang out with Thibaut’s family.”

“Or yours.”

Eden made a face. “Parents. Boyfriend. Remember?”

“You can’t hide them from me forever,” César said. “We’ll just say that I’m your friend.”

“I’m not hiding them,” Eden said indignantly. “Fine, if you come to Belgium this summer, you can meet them.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. Let’s get back to kissing, that was more fun.”

“Mm.”

But no sooner had they done so when César heard feet on the path down to the bench. He sighed.

“Sorry!” squeaked Ola. “Um, Ken said you were missing and told me to go tell you it’s time to pack up. Um, sorry to. Um. Interrupt.”

“No problem,” César said as Eden gave him a look that said _Yes problem._ “We’ll be right in.”

Eden sighed dramatically. “You can’t get any privacy in this damn world.”

“Sure you can,” César said. “You just have to look harder.”

“No, you can’t, because there’s always someone there to walk in on you.” Eden stood up. “We should get going.”

* * *

 

César’s parents were there to pick him up at the airport. He’d told them he would be fine taking a train back, but they had insisted on the grounds that they hadn’t seen him in almost three months. The whole car ride back, they asked questions about the trip that César mostly deflected, not wanting to discuss it too much for fear of ruining the memories. He showed them pictures of the beach and the nature preserve, but not the selfies that Willian and Zoumi had taken after stealing his phone. He talked about teaching the kids math, but not Norma’s impromptu wedding ceremony.

That, of course, was mostly because César’s parents weren’t aware that he was actually dating someone.

“¿ _Cuándo vas a encontrar una novia?”_ César’s mother frequently asked.

“I don’t know, Mamá! I’m in high school! Besides, where am I supposed to find girls in an all-boys school?”

“ _Pero, tus amigos tienen novias_ , no?”

“ _Unos,_ but they’re mostly girls from home, and you don’t want me dating any of the girls from my old school, do you?”

His mother had to admit that no, she did not approve of any of the girls that César had ever dated before.

The six days dragged by. César went to see a few of his old friends, but he hadn’t liked them much to begin with and he liked them even less now. He went running a few times so as not to get out of shape for lacrosse season and practiced driving under his mother’s supervision. Eden was apparently in New York City with some of his extended family, and he filled César in on everything they had done every night, which included going to some Broadway shows that César had wanted to see.

“You could have at least invited me for _Hamilton_!” he practically cried after Eden gleefully held up a signed playbill.

“Next time,” Eden promised. “I don’t usually like musicals, but damn, it was good.”

César was, once again, far more excited to go back to school than he had been to go home. He was bringing a suitcase of spring clothes back with him. His mother dropped him off at 30th Street Station a full hour before his train was due to leave, made him promise to call at least every other day (“for real this time, César!”), and sent him off.

César purchased a ticket, feeling like an old hand at the whole ordeal by now, and went to the line for security. As he reached the front of the station, one of the guards put his arm across César’s chest.

“Come this way, please, sir,” one of the security guards, a dark-skinned man with dreadlocks, said, motioning for César to step out of line.

A bit surprised, César followed him. “Yes?”

“Random check. If you could just follow me into this room…”

César halted, now wary. “I didn’t know you had to go into a separate room to do these checks.”

“Occasionally. Sir, you don’t want any trouble.”

“Fine,” César said. “I’ll come.” He glanced around. No one was paying any attention to him, but there were plenty of people around. If there were a problem, he could yell and instantly alert a few hundred people to his predicament. Nothing bad ever happens in a crowded train station.

The separate room was fairly small, with only a few cabinets on the walls and a low white table. One other man, a blond, waited.

“What’s your name?” he asked as the door closed.

“César Azpilicueta,” César said, every nerve in his body on edge. _It’s okay_ , he told himself, but something about the situation was wrong, totally wrong.

“How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

“Why are you traveling alone?”

“I’m going back to school.” César figured that his best strategy was to be as straightforward and honest as possible.

“Where do you go to school?”

César hesitated. “It’s in Connecticut.”

“Wouldn’t be Barclays Academy, would it?”

César’s blood chilled. His every instinct was to flee, but the door was blocked. Other escape routes? None, unless César could beat up two men, both twice his size. What if he shouted for help? Who would help him?

“What do you want with me?” he said, trying and failing to sound tough.

The blond punched César in the gut and the face in quick succession. César shouted in pain and stumbled, falling, into the wall. He slumped. _Breathe. Breathe_. There was something wet on his face. Spots danced in front of his eyes. He forced himself to stay conscious, regain some control.

One of the men shouted something. César caught the name _Michel_.

“Please,” César said. Talking hurt, the words were garbled and unintelligible. “I don’t—“

He felt two sharp kicks to his ribs, and César thought something snapped. Someone was screaming. _Stand up_ , something in his mind said, but even if he’d wanted to, César didn’t think he could move. Then, the blond man leaned down and shoved his face practically on top of César’s.

“Stay away from Michel,” he said. “Or else.”

The two men exited the room, leaving César broken on the floor.

* * *

 

César wasn’t sure how much time had passed since his entering the room. He might have passed out; he couldn’t remember. He wanted to sleep. Sleep would be nice. No more pain.

 _César_ , someone said.

Eden was there. Blurred around the edges, all out of focus, but it was Eden.

_Get up._

“I can’t,” César mumbled.

Eden leaned down. He was flickering like a candle, like he could be blown out any second.

 _You can_.

He extended an arm, ghosted a hand against César’s cheek, but there was nothing, no contact, no warmth. One of them wasn’t there, and César wasn’t sure who it was.

Then Eden was gone, or maybe he’d never been there.

César blinked. He was still in the sterile white room. The light blinded his eyes. What was he doing?

The train. He needed to catch his train.

César checked his phone, which was, shockingly, intact despite being in the pocket of his jeans. It was three fifteen. His train left at three thirty. He could make it with plenty of time to spare.

Realizing that he probably looked just as beaten up as he felt, César opened his phone camera and was shocked to see blood coating his mouth and one eye turning purple. He mopped up his mouth as best he could with the inside of his sweatshirt. It didn’t hurt, strangely; or maybe his body was just more concerned about the rest of him. The eye he could do nothing about.

He needed to use the wall to steady himself when standing up, as his ribs and head were throbbing painfully. Perhaps getting to the train would be more difficult than he had anticipated.

The door handle refused to budge. César panicked momentarily. What would he do if he were locked in? Desperately, he wrenched on the handle and the door sprang open, sending César reeling.

He tried to arrange his face into some semblance of normality and appear not to be leaning too heavily on his rolling suitcase. He was near the track already, and a few people were giving him curious glances. They probably thought that he was some punk kid who had gotten in a gang fight, but that was the least of César’s concerns.

A rush of wind signaled the approaching train. César stumbled towards it. The edges of his vision were blurring as pain seared through his body. Somehow, he made it onto the train and into a seat. An older woman seated across the aisle looked at him with concern. “Are you all right, young man?”

“Fine,” César gasped. “I have… disease… it’s okay.” He knew he was probably incoherent, but he couldn’t manage anything better.

Somehow, miraculously, sleep came.

* * *

 

By the time César woke up, it was just after six fifteen. The hour and a half of sleep had done him some good: the pain in his ribs had subsided to more of a dull ache. He yawned and a sharp pain shot through him.

César pulled out his phone to see three texts from Eden.

 

 _Eden_ : dave

 _Eden:_ daveeee

 _Eden:_ César AZDSAJKLDF ANSWER ME NOW

 

César smiled.

 

 _Me_ : sry i was asleep

 

Eden replied almost instantly

 

 _Eden:_ where r u?

 _Me_ : on a train

 _Eden:_ when will u get here

 _Me:_ 7:30? depends on traffic

 _Eden:_ nope that is too long i am alone

 

César contemplated saying something about his ordeal but decided that that was too complicated a conversation to have over text.

 

 _Me:_ relax ill be there soon

 _Eden:_ im crying wo u

 _Me:_ <3 <3 gtg were getting close to the station

 

César checked his face in his camera again. The skin beneath his eye had turned from light pink to a dark, angry red. That would certainly be noticeable.

When the train stopped in the station, César stood up with minimal discomfort and headed off, gritting his teeth. He made it outside into the cloudy evening and stood waiting for the car that would pick up the boys from the station.

“Hi, César.”

César winced. He’d forgotten that Nacho Monreal would be traveling on the same train as him.

“Hi, Nacho. How was your break?”

“Oh, it was nice. Arsenal went to South Dakota to work with a Native American tribe.”

“That’s nice,” César said.

“Hey, are you okay?” Nacho asked, apparently noticing César’s eye for the first time.

César forced a smile. “I got hit in the face with a… hockey puck.” He struggled to remain upright instead of collapsing in a heap on the ground.

“Wait, aren’t you a swimmer?”

“Yeah, but my brother plays hockey.” That, at least, wasn’t a lie.

Nacho winced. “Looks like it hurts.” He pointed straight ahead. “I think that’s the car.”

“Looks like it.”

Lifting his bag into the trunk of the car was no small task, and by the time he was done, César practically collapsed in the backseat. 

After some uncomfortable small talk (“How was your break?” “Oh, it was nice, and yours?” “Fine, nasty weather we’ve been having”) the ride progressed in silence. When the car turned onto the now-familiar road leading to Barclays, César pulled out his phone to text Eden.

 

 _Me_ : just want to warn u

 _Me:_ dont freak out when u see me

 _Me:_ im ok

 _Eden:_ the fuck does that mean

 _Eden:_ DAVE

 _Eden:_ now I'm scared

 _Eden:_ what happened

 _Me:_ ill be there in five minutes

* * *

 

Eden’s reaction was to scream and throw his arms around César.

“OW!” César screamed in agony. His head spun and he felt woozy.

“Oh my god,” Eden said, letting go immediately. “What happened?”

César stumbled to the bed and lay down. “ _Dios_ … Eden, I got… these two guys…” He shook his head in frustration.

“I’m getting John,” Eden declared. “Don’t move. Don’t die, damn it!”

“Trying.”

Eden was gone. César heard his feet thudding up the stairs and shouts of “John, I need you!” César groaned and tried to roll over to find a more comfortable position. Nothing helped.

Then Eden was back with John, Branislav, and Nemanja in tow. “Holy shit, Dave,” John said, kneeling by the bed. “What happened?”

“Ribs… _rotas_ …” _Speak English_. “Broken!”

“I’m getting Guus,” Branislav said, running out of the room.

“Do we call nine-one-one?” Nemanja asked. “Is the health center open?”

“Wait for Guus,” John said. “But I’m pretty sure he’s going to need the hospital.”

“No… no hospital.”

“If you don’t want to go, you need to tell us why,” John said. “Did someone do this to you?”

César nodded once.

“Who?”

“Security… not… really…”

Guus arrived, panting, and John stood to greet him. “Guus. Dave broke his ribs. He needs to go to hospital.”

“Okay,” Guus said, looking slightly panicked. “Did you call for an ambulance?”

“Not yet.”

“I’ll do that. Yes. Oh. Does anyone have a phone?”

“Eden,” César whispered.

Eden smiled and squeezed César’s hand. “Now we’ve both been rushed to the hospital.”

“Not… best…”

“Don’t talk if it hurts. I’ll tell you a story, how about that?”

With that, Eden launched into a detailed explanation of how he and his ten-year-old brother had gotten lost on the subway in New York. César didn’t really understand most of it, but he allowed himself to be lulled by the lilt of Eden’s voice (which sounded slightly more French today than it usually did, or maybe he’d just never noticed it before) until a team of EMTs arrived and rolled him onto a stretcher. 

“ _Je t’aime_ ,” César heard Eden say.

“Eden!”

One of the paramedics hushed him. “Calm down, young man, you have to lie still.”

“It’s okay,” Eden said. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“Eden,” said César, panicking suddenly. They were going down the stairs now, he could feel every bump. He lifted an arm. “Please!”

The ambulance was right outside the door of Chelsea House. César saw a crowd. The other houses in London Quad had emptied to see what was going on. He closed his eyes as he was lifted into the ambulance.

“Comfortable?” said one of the paramedics.

César nodded, and then the ambulance started moving. Its horn blared and he imagined the other boys diving out of the way while simultaneously trying to see in through the back window.

Then, blessedly, he slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while. Anyone remember this?


	17. In Which César Is Prompositioned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> César gets back to school. He receives a surprise at dinner.

“Welcome home,” said Eden. “I’m not going to hug you this time.”

César grinned. “Probably for the best.”

He had just returned from the hospital, where he had been diagnosed with three broken ribs and a chipped tooth, neither of which much could be done about. The school health centre had asked him to come get checked out, although he wasn’t sure what they were planning to do. Debrief him on his hospital stay, most likely. They had left him on one of the couches to wait, which he had been doing for almost five minutes; alone, until Eden had arrived.

“Um, just out of curiosity, why are you here?” he asked Eden.

“What do you mean?” said Eden, who apparently saw nothing potentially concerning about standing in the health centre.

“Are you sick? What are you doing in the health centre?”

“Oh. I’m loitering,” Eden said with a grin, “but don’t tell Mr. Martinez that, because he thinks that I just threw up in the bathroom.”

“Loiter here a lot, do you?”

“Nah,” Eden said, “I just wanted to see what was going on, if anyone was in here.”

“And who could you have possibly expected to see,” César deadpanned. “You know, I was counting on you for notes from that class.”

“Meh, we’ll steal them from someone else.”

The nurse entered the room suddenly.

“I heard voices,” she said. “Is everything all right, young man?” This was directed at Eden.

“Splendid,” Eden said, and César snorted. “I just came to see my friend.”

She looked doubtful. “You don’t have class?”

“I have a free period,” Eden lied easily. “But I’ll get going if you want.”

“You really should,” she said severely. “Mr. Azleta needs his rest.” Eden caught César’s eye at the butchering of his name and grinned.

“I’m fine,” César said quickly. “He can stay.”

“He can see you tonight, when you return to your room,” she said. “Go on.”

Eden made a face. “I shall miss you dearly.”

“Shut up and stop talking like a Jane Austen book,” César said, smiling in spite of himself. “I’ll be back soon and then we can talk.”

* * *

 

“Do not come in,” Oscar said, shutting the door in César’s face.

“Why?” César protested, but he got no answer. “What are you two doing in there?”

The door opened just a crack, and this time Eden was on the other side. “Nothing,” he said cheerfully, “except it’s rather delicate work, so we really can’t be interrupted.”

“If I locked myself in my room,” César complained, “you would bang down the door.”

“Quite possibly,” Eden said. “I’ll come get you before dinner.”

With that, he shut the door.

César sighed. He really didn’t have the time to be hanging out with his boyfriend, if he was being honest with himself. He needed to catch up on homework.

John walked by at that moment. “Dave!” he said. “How are you doing?”

“Pretty good.” John had been asking him that question every time they saw each other ever since César had gotten back from the hospital. 

“Eden might be at dinner,” John said, nodding at the closed door.

“No, he’s in there,” César said.

Disappointment must have come through in his voice, because John sighed and said, “Well, I’m sure he’ll come around.”

“Oh, I’m not worried or anything,” César said quickly. “He’s probably got some big idea that he’s working on and doesn’t want disturbed.”

John laughed. “Probably, knowing him. See you later, Dave.”

With nothing better to do, César returned to his room and opened his physics book to attempt to understand what exactly a convex lens was, but he was finding it physically impossible to concentrate with the knowledge that Eden had just shut him out.

It had never happened before. Even before they were really friends, Eden had always had time for César. He had always wanted César to be in on whatever he was doing. He had never kept any secrets from César.

That wasn’t true. César knew it and was painfully aware of it. Eden lied offhand, contradicted himself when it suited him, brushed off important questions by making a joke. He had lied about asking out Kenedy, César was sure. The stories he told of his childhood made no sensical story when put together. Eden Hazard was a conundrum and a problematic one at that.

Of course, if Eden was problematic, what did that make César, who had never challenged him? A doormat, that’s what it made him. A stupid idiot too in love to care that he was played with. It didn’t have to be like that. César could sit Eden down and make him tell the truth, the whole truth.

Eden stuck his head in the door.

“Hey, wanna go to dinner?”

César’s nerve dissipated. “Sure. Just a minute.” He grabbed his phone from its charger. “What were you doing?”

“Nothing,” Eden said cheerfully. 

“Uh-huh. Tell me, Eden.”

Eden sighed. “I’d love to,” he said, “because I love you, but it actually does have to be a secret.”

César stopped. “You what?”

“I what?”

“You,” César said carefully, “love me.”

“Yeah,” said Eden. “You don’t remember? I said so when you were on your way to the hospital.”

“In French!” César protested. “French doesn’t count.”

“Fine,” said Eden. “I love you, César. There, now you have it in English.”

“I love you, too,” César said, because he did, he really did.

Eden kissed him softly, quickly, and César was a stupid idiot too in love to care that the boy he loved was so, so problematic.

* * *

 

“Dave,” said Oscar. “I have a very strange question for you.”

In César’s experience, this was never a good way to begin a conversation, especially one taking place in the middle of the dining hall during the dinner rush. “What is it?” he asked trepidatiously. 

Oscar giggled, said, “This is so weird, but, do you want to, um, go to prom with me?”

César stared. “Do I want to go to prom with you?”

“Well, you haven’t asked Eden yet, have you?”

No, he hadn’t, as César had rather been assuming that Eden would do the asking. “I guess I haven’t. But Oscar—”

The door to the dining hall banged open and there, seated atop a chair being carried by John, Branislav, Thibaut, and Gary, was Eden Hazard. Everyone in the room turned to watch the commotion, no one quite sure how to react.

“No, you have not asked me,” Eden said, basking in the glory of having the eyes and ears of two hundred boys turned on him. “Which I am not at all salty about, because your negligence provides me with this fantastic opportunity to ask you to prom.”

“So extra,” whispered someone.

Eden’s four chair-bearers moved forward and a path cleared for them.

“César Azpilicueta, you and I are both far too young to be married, as I am barely sixteen and you not yet seventeen, so this is the closest I can legally come to a public declaration of love and permanence, for what is high school prom if not a sign of lifelong fealty? Sarcastic as that may have been, it does not mean that what I feel for you is sarcastic or insincere, but rather that I love you enough and know that you love me enough for me to be able to say things like that without fearing retaliation or… you know what, guys, could you put me down? Towering over him like this is kind of weird.”

“I told you so,” Thibaut muttered, but they complied and lowered Eden to the ground.

“What I’m trying to say is that I’d very much like to go to prom with you, and it’s a bit ridiculous that I’m asking you, because sophomores aren’t even allowed to go unless they’re invited and I haven’t been. However, if you don’t say yes, I have it on good authority that Willian will take me instead, and then I will stare at you the whole night long and be very salty.” Eden looked very serious, almost nervous, and César had to smile. “Also, please know that Scar didn’t want to ask you to prom, but I made him so that I could make a good entrance. Also, that time I said you couldn’t come into my room was because I was making a poster and didn’t want you to see it, and I scrapped that poster because Scar spilled the glitter glue.”

“You left it uncapped,” Oscar said.

“So what do you say?” Eden said eagerly.

“Yes, yes, yes!” César said, his voice embarrassingly high. “Yes, I want to go to prom with you, and I didn’t even realize that I had to invite you, but you’re invited!” He threw his arms around Eden and hugged him tightly.

“Oh, fuck that no-homo shit,” Eden said, and kissed César. 

Someone, probably Gary, gagged, and someone else, probably John, muttered, “Please not now, guys.”

“Oh, you’re going to be all over Snapchat,” Oscar whispered gleefully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, 'tis the season for promposals...


	18. In Which César Is Left

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> César's world breaks, a little.

At ten o’clock, César knocked on Eden’s door and was greeted by a “Come in!”

“Hey,” he said, quickly noting that Eden was gone and his bed, shockingly, made. “Eden said to come over. Do you know where he went?”

Oscar, lying on his own bed, frowned. “He left a few minutes ago, but I don’t know where he was going. Bridge, maybe?”

“Okay,” said César. “It’s almost in-room anyway, so when you see him, just let him know I came by?”

“Gotcha,” Oscar said, turning back to his phone.

César dashed up the two flights of steps to the Bridge, where he found Kenedy watching TV alone.

“Have you seen Eden?” César said.

“Not since dinner. Why?”

César shrugged. “He just texted me saying to go down to his room but he wasn’t there so I figured he might be up here.”

“Nope. Haven’t seen him.”

César sighed and returned to his own room, firing off a quick text: _where are you?_

Five minutes before lights-out at eleven, Oscar texted him. 

 

Oscar: _hes still not here_

Oscar: _hes gonna be in troubleeee_

* * *

 

The next morning, César was awakened by a knock on the door.

“Come in!” said Nemanja, who was already awake. César didn’t have a class first period, so he didn’t need to be up as early. He groaned and rolled over to see John walk into the room.

“Hey,” he said. “I’m supposed to let you guys know that we have an all-school assembly at eight instead of first period.”

“Eight?” César said in disbelief. “John, it’s seven-forty!”

“I know, sorry. We didn’t find out until late last night.”

“What’s it about?” Nemanja asked.

John shrugged. “Guus wouldn’t say. I’ll see you guys later.”

After he left, César turned to Nemanja. “Eden wasn’t back for lights-out last night.”

Nemanja frowned. “Doesn’t he always miss lights-out anyway?”

“Yeah, but this time it’s different. He left the room around ten and no one knows where he went.”

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Nemanja said. “He probably just had a brilliant idea and had to act on it right away.”

“Oscar was going to text me when he got back.”

“Oscar’s kind of flaky anyway, isn’t he?”

“You’re right,” César said, fears still not quelled. “Could you get me a bagel from breakfast if you’re going?”

“You don’t want to come?” Nemanja said.

“No.”

Nemanja gave him a worried look. “Okay, I’ll see you soon,” he said finally, leaving.

César flopped down on his bed. Maybe Eden was downstairs. Maybe he would be at the assembly and kiss César’s temple and ask what was the matter. Maybe he’d just been going out with an old friend last night and had been returned safely to his bed. Maybe the emergency was that Arsene Wenger had died of old age or that Aston Villa House had literally collapsed from rot.

César put on a pair of black pants and a button-down. His hair was a mess, but that wasn’t his primary concern. It was seven-fifty. He started walking downstairs.

“Hey,” Cesc said, meeting him outside. “What d’you think this all about?”

César shrugged.

“Oscar told me that Eden was gone all of last night.”

“He never came back?”

“That’s what I heard.”

The theater, where all-school assemblies were held, was already crowded. There was not a silent person in the room, as everyone speculated in low voices. Willian waved to César and Cesc, pointing to two empty seats next to him.

As soon as they sat down, Oscar leaned over. “Eden isn’t back.”

“And he didn’t say anything to you?” César said.

Oscar shrugged. “Nothing.”

Mr. Scudamore stepped onto the stage. Almost instantly, everyone was silent, waiting to hear what he had to say.

“He doesn’t look sad,” Cesc whispered, leaning across César.

“Why would he be?” Willian replied.

“Well, if something really bad happened—“

“Shut up, will you?” César snapped. “Just listen.”

While Scudamore didn’t look sad, he did seem slightly uncomfortable. “I have some news for you boys,” he said. “I apologize for disrupting the day, but the teachers agreed with me that you should know sooner rather than later. The king of Belgium died last night.”

The mood in the audience changed from one of hushed silence to curiosity and confusion. A king’s death was not reason enough to hold a special assembly.

“His son…” Scudamore swallowed hard. He looked nervous now. “His son was Eden Hazard.”

_Eden Hazard._

The words echoed in César’s mind. He felt dizzy.

_Eden Hazard Eden Hazard Edenhazard Ednazard Edzard Hissonedenhazard Kingofbelgium Edenhazard Edenhazard EDEN HAZARD._

“You mean Eden Hazard’s the new king of Belgium?” someone shouted.

Scudamore nodded once.

Cesc grabbed for César’s hand. César held on weakly. He couldn’t see clearly.

“César,” Willian asked quietly, “are you all right?”

He nodded rigidly.

“Come on, we can go if you’re not.”

“No,” whispered César.

About twenty people were all trying to ask questions at once. “How did we…” “But when…” “You mean…” “Why didn’t…”

“Students!” Scudamore said wearily. “It’ll be easier to let him explain himself.”

The screen behind Scudamore flickered on. Eden’s head and shoulders were visible. Behind him was the dormitory wall. He had filmed this video in his own room. César found that he could see suddenly. In fact, everything was in hyper-focus. He was very aware of everyone breathing around him.

“Hi,” said Screen-Eden. “It’s me, Eden. If you’re seeing this, I guess that means that I’m in Belgium right now, probably in a meeting with soggy old dignitaries. Yeah, I’m the new king of Belgium. So, what everyone is probably wondering is, how did you not know?” Screen-Eden sighed dramatically. “This has really all been in the works for about five years now. Eden is actually my middle name, but I’ve gone by it since I was a little kid. I’ve also lived in America since I was six or so, which is why I don’t really have an accent. But the real trick was wiping the school’s Internet of all mentions of Michel Eden Hazard, Crown Prince of Belgium. Any information about the royal family would have my brother listed as Crown Prince. If you Googled me, you would only see stuff that this school posted about me. I’m not sure if they took that down yet, so you can check if you want. I’m not lying.

“I guess what I really want to say is sorry. I lied to all of you, and maybe it was for my own good or whatever, but that doesn’t change the fact that I misled you and you probably all hate me and have a very good reason to hate me. Please forgive me. And also, I’ve already changed my cell phone and email and deleted all my social media accounts except the official ones. Please don’t try to contact me. Security was very specific on this one. And I know I don’t have any right to ask this, but it would be great if you could not make a big deal out of this. It is a big deal, I know, but pretty please. That’s all the official stuff I have to say, I think.

“So unofficial stuff. Thank you for being the fabulous bunch of boys you are. I probably hated half of you and may have told you so to your faces, which was very rude and I apologize for it, but I do actually appreciate every single one of you. Thanks especially to the soccer team. I’m sorry I got hurt. You guys are great. Win the league again next year for me, will you? And most importantly, Chelsea House. You are my brothers and my best friends. Say goodbye to the Bridge for me. Stop by if you’re ever in Belgium.”

He might have looked directly at César, and addressed the next line directly to him.

“Thank you for the best almost two years of my life,” he said, and the video went black.

César realized that he was crying. Cesc put an arm around his shoulder and hugged him, but César was convinced that it was just a joke. Just Eden being a little idiot, and he was about to walk out from the wings laughing and shaking his head and saying, “I got you, didn’t I? Fooled you all!”

César pulled out his phone to text Eden. The last text there was from Eden: xoxo. 

 

_Me: whats going on_

_Me: is this a joke?_

 

“ _Para, César_ ,” Cesc whispered, grabbing the phone and tugging on it gently. “ _Se fue._ ”

“No he didn’t,” César said. “He’s making it up, and you fell for it, didn’t you? He’s fine, and he’ll be back soon.”

“Don’t do this,” Cesc said. “Don’t make it harder for yourself.”

“ _Joder_ , Cescky, how exactly am I going to make this harder than it already is? My boyfriend is the fucking king of a country and he never told me and I’m never going to fucking see him again and I was in love with this boy and he lied to me.”

“Boys, I know that this is clearly startling news, so I’m not going to make you go to the last fifteen minutes of first period, but you are required to go to classes for the rest of the day, so I recommend you get going. Your Heads of Houses are available to talk anytime, of course, and I know it will take time for this news to settle in. Have a nice day!”

“I’m not fucking going to classes,” César announced loudly. Everyone in his vicinity turned to look at him. “I’m fucking not,” he repeated.

“César, you should…”

“He doesn’t have to,” John said. “Let him go.”

And César went, out the door of the theater, down the stone walkway, and he wasn’t sure where he went after that.

* * *

 

“Hey,” said Kurt.

César opened his eyes and blinked. He was lying on his back next to the school pond. His back was, he realized, very wet. So was his face.

“I brought you a sandwich.”

César sat up, suddenly hungry. “What time is it?”

“Two. Hope you like turkey and cheese.”

“I’m a vegetarian,” César said absently, opening up the sandwich and picking out the turkey. He tossed the offending meat on the ground.

“Dammit, I would have eaten that.”

“Oops,” César said. “Sorry for being inconsiderate.”

“Mind if I sit down?”

César patted the ground next to him, an invitation, and Kurt sat.

“So what’ve you been up to?”

César frowned. The cheese in the sandwich was slightly soggy. “I walked around and then I took a nap.”

“How many detentions do you think you got?”

César snorted. “A billion.”

“Aw, come on, not quite that many for one day of classes.”

“Fine, five,” said César. “I’ve never had a detention. Eden got detentions all the time but he never went to them. I think he just talked his way out of them.”

“Do you want to talk about Eden?”

“You probably do,” said César. “I bet John sent you down here to check on me. Or Cesc, but probably John.”

“Busted. I’ve been looking for you for ages.”

“Well, you found me. Do you think Eden was a dick?”

Kurt hesitated. “Well, he certainly should have given you a bit of warning.”

“Yeah, he should have!” César said. “Maybe I should have known. Maybe that would be nice. Considerate. Don’t you think? And don’t you think he should have told everyone in person, not just over video? Oh, wait, probably because someone would have slapped him in his royal face and it might have been me.”

“You wouldn’t have slapped him,” Kurt said.

“You’re right, I would have started crying,” César said. “Dammit, I’m supposed to be a man.”

“Hey,” Kurt said, putting an arm around César. “Men can cry.”

César nodded slowly. “Damn right they can,” he said. “Let’s go back to Chelsea House.”

* * *

 

“I just don’t get it,” Cesc said.

He paced to the window, stood with his back to the others for a moment, and then turned around. “How did no one realize who he was?”

They were gathered in Eden and Oscar’s room. Oscar, Willian, and Thibaut sat on Oscar’s bed. John was leaning against a wall, while Kurt and Branislav each sat on a desk chair. César was alone on Eden’s bed, under the sheets that still held his scent.

“Systematically wiping the school network of any mention of the eldest Belgian prince,” Willian said dully. “Besides, his first name was Michel, anyway.”

“We’re not here forever. We haven’t been here forever,” Cesc said. “Thibaut, you’re Belgian, didn’t you know?”

“Don’t you think I would have said something if I had?” Thibaut said defensively.

“We’re not accusing you,” John said, voice level. “We’re just wondering. You must have known that there were four princes.”

“I did,” Thibaut said. “Michel, Ganael Francis, Kylian, and Ethan. I didn’t think Prince Michel was Eden Hazard. The royalty aren’t exactly celebrities. I never thought…”

They were silent.

“You okay, Dave?” John said finally.

César nodded.

“It’s not fair, is it?” John said.

César shook his head.

“Talk to us. We want to help.”

“I’m going upstairs,” César said, swinging his legs out of the bed and leaving the room without looking at anyone.

Nemanja wasn’t in their room, much to César’s relief. He flung himself onto his bed and Googled _King Michel_.

There was a picture of Eden stepping off of the private jet that César had been on less than two months ago, tired but resolute. Eden in front of his palace. Eden behind a podium addressing a sea of microphones. Twenty-four hours ago, they’d been eating dinner together.

He looked at his text conversation with Eden, considered sending something, reconsidered. Eden had changed his number already. He was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of you probably guessed it. Oh well, at least I shocked César, amiright?  
> Just kidding. Sorry, César.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic on AO3, but I have like five in various fandoms I've been working on and this one is in the best state so far. I'd love to hear your thoughts, comments, criticism (so long as it's polite), et cetera.  
> Hope you enjoyed!


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